FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 


FAIRFAX  AND 
HIS  PRIDE 

A   NOVEL 


BY 

MARIE  VAN  VORST 

Author  of  "Big  Tremaine,"  etc. 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


TO 
B.  VAN  VORST 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  LONG  FRIENDSHIP 


2133335 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 
BOOK  I 

THE  KINSMEN 

CHAPTEK  I 

ONE  bitter  day  in  January  in  the  year  1880,  when  New 
York  was  a  tranquil  city,  a  young  man  stood  at  the  South 
Ferry  waiting  for  the  up-town  horse  car.  With  a  few  other 
passengers  he  had  just  left  the  packet  which  had  arrived 
in  New  York  harbour  that  afternoon  from  New  Orleans. 

Antony  Fairfax  was  an  utter  stranger  to  the  North. 

In  his  hand  he  carried  a  small  hand-bag,  and  by  his 
side  on  the  snow  rested  his  single  valise.  Before  him 
waited  a  red  and  yellow  tram-car  drawn  by  lean  horses, 
from  whose  backs  the  vapour  rose  on  the  frosty  air. 
Muffled  to  his  ears,  the  driver  beat  together  his  hands  in 
their  leather  gloves;  the  conductor  stamped  his  feet.  The 
traveller  climbed  into  the  car,  lifting  his  big  bag  after  him. 

The  cold  was  even  more  terrible  to  him  than  to  the 
conductor  and  driver.  He  had  come  from  the  South, 
where  he  had  left  the  roses  and  magnolias  in  bloom,  and 
the  warmth  of  the  country  was  in  his  blood.  He  dug 
his  feet  into  the  straw  covering  the  floor  of  the  car, 
buttoned  his  coat  tight  about  his  neck,  pushed  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets  and  sat  wondering  at  the  numbing  cold. 

This,  then,  was  the  North ! 

He  watched  with  interest  the  few  other  passengers 
board  the  little  car:  two  fruit  vendors  and  after  them 
were  amiably  lifted  in  great  bunches  of  bananas.  Antony 
asked  himself  the  question  whether  this  new  country 
would  be  friendly  to  him,  what  would  its  spirit  be  toward 

1 


2  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

him,  and  as  he  asked  this  question  of  the  cold  winter  air 
the  city  suddenly  took  reality  and  formed  for  him  out  of 
his  dreams.  Would  it  be  kind  or  cruel?  The  coming 
days  would  answer:  meanwhile  he  could  wait.  Some 
places,  like  some  people  whom  we  meet,  at  once  extend 
to  us  a  hand;  there  are  some  that  even  seem  to  offer  an 
embrace.  Through  the  car  blew  a  sudden  icy  blast  and 
New  York's  welcome  to  Fairfax  was  keen  as  a  blow. 
There  was  an  actual  physical  affront  in  this  wind  that 
struck  him  in  the  face. 

Suppose  the  elements  were  an  indication  of  what  the 
rest  would  be?  But  no  —  that  was  ridiculous!  There 
would  be  certainly  warm  interiors  behind  the  snow- 
fretted  panes  of  the  windows  in  the  houses  that  lined 
the  streets  on  either  side.  There  would  be  warm  and 
cordial  hearts  to  welcome  him  somewhere.  There  would 
be  understanding  of  heart,  indulgence  for  youth.  He 
would  find  open  doors  for  all  his  ambitions,  spurs  to  his 
integrity  and  effort.  He  would  know  how  to  make  use 
of  these  ways  and  means  of  progress.  For  years  he  had 
dreamed  of  the  galleries  of  pictures  and  of  the  museum. 
It  was  from  this  wonderful  city  whose  wideness  had  the 
intense  outreach  of  the  unknown  that  Fairfax  had  elected 
to  step  into  the  world. 

New  York  was  to  be  his  threshold.  There  was  no 
limit  to  what  he  intended  to  do  in  his  special  field  of  work. 
From  his  boyhood  he  had  told  himself  that  he  would 
become  great.  He  was  too  young  to  have  discovered 
the  traitors  that  hide  in  the  brain  and  the  emptiness  of 
the  deepest  tears.  He  was  a  pioneer  and  had  the  faith  of 
the  pioneer.  According  to  him  everything  was  real,  the 
beauty  of  form  was  enchanting,  all  hearts  were  true,  and 
all  roads  led  to  fame.  His  short  life  focused  now  at  this 
hour. 

Life  is  a  series  of  successive  stages  to  which  point  of 
culmination  a  man  brings  all  he  has  of  the  past  and  all 
his  hopes.  All  along  the  road  these  blessed  visions  crowd, 
fulminate  and  form  as  it  were  torches,  and  these  lights 
mark  the  road  for  the  traveller.  Now  all  Antony's  life 
came  to  a  point  in  this  hour.  He  had  longed  to  go  to 
New  York  from  the  day  when  in  New  Orleans  he  had  com- 
pleted his  first  bust.  He  had  moulded  from  the  soft  clay 
on  the  banks  of  the  levees  the  head  of  a  famous  general, 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  3 

who  had  later  become  president.  He  was  only  twelve  years 
old  then,  but  his  little  work  bore  all  the  indications  of 
genius. 

He  was  an  artist  from  the  ends  of  the  slender  hands 
to  the  centre  of  the  sensitive  heart.  The  childlikeness, 
the  beauty  of  his  nature  revealed  it  in  everything  he  did; 
and  he  was  only  twenty-two  years  old. 

As  he  sat  in  the  horse  car,  his  heart  full  of  hope,  his 
brain  teeming  with  the  ideal,  he  was  an  interesting  figure 
to  watch,  and  a  fine  old  gentleman  on  his  way  up  town 
was  struck  by  the  brilliancy,  the  aspect  of  the  fellow 
passenger.  He  studied  the  young  fellow  from  behind  his 
evening  paper,  but  the  old  gentleman  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  what  the  young  man  was.  Aside  from  the 
valise  at  his  feet  Antony  had  no  other  worldly  goods,  and 
aside  from  the  twenty-five  dollars  in  his  pocket,  he  had 
no  other  money.  There  was  nothing  about  him  to  suggest 
the  artistic  type:  broad-shouldered,  muscular,  he  seemed 
built  for  battles  and  feats  of  physical  strength,  but  his 
face  was  thoughtful  for  one  so  young.  His  eyes  were  clear. 
"  He  looks,"  mused  the  gentleman,  "  like  a  man  who  has 
come  home  after  a  very  successful  journey.  I  suspect  the 
young  fellow  is  returning  with  something  resembling  the 
story  books'  bag  of  gold."  He  humorously  fancied  even 
that  the  treasure  might  be  in  the  valise  on  the  straw  of 
the  car  at  the  traveller's  feet. 

The  car  tinkled  slowly  through  the  cold.  After  a 
long  while,  well  above  a  street  marked  Fiftieth,  its  road 
appeared  to  lie  in  the  country.  There  were  vacant  lots 
on  either  side;  there  were  low-roofed,  ramshackle 
shanties;  there  were  stray  goats  here  and  there  among  the 
rocks.  Antony  said  to  the  conductor  in  a  pleasant, 
Southern  voice:  "You  won't  forget  to  let  me  off  at 
70th  Street."  He  rose  at  the  conductor's  signal  and  the 
ringing  of  the  bell.  The  old  gentleman,  who  was  a  canon 
of  the  Church,  saw  as  the  young  man  rose  that  he  was  lame, 
that  he  limped,  that  he  wore  a  high,  double-soled  boot. 
As  Fairfax  went  out  he  lifted  his  hat  with  a  courteous 
"  Good  evening "  to  his  only  fellow  passenger,  for  the 
others  had  one  by  one  left  the  car  to  go  to  their  different 
destinations.  "  Too  bad,"  thought  the  canon  to  himself, 
"  Lame,  by  Jove !  With  a  smile  like  that  a  man  can 
win  the  world." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  little  figure  in  the  corner  of  the  pink  sofa  had  read 
away  the  hours  of  the  short  winter  afternoon  curled  up 
in  a  ball,  her  soft  red  dress,  her  soft  red  cheeks,  her  soft 
red  lips  vivid  bits  of  colour  in  the  lamplight.  She  had 
read  through  the  twilight,  until  the  lamps  came  to  help 
her  pretty  eyes,  and  like  a  scholar  of  old  over  some 
problem  she  bent  above  her  fairy  tale.  The  volume  was 
unwieldy,  and  she  supported  it  on  her  knees.  Close  to 
her  side  a  little  boy  of  six  watched  the  absorbed  face, 
watched  the  lamp  and  the  shadows  of  the  lamp  on  the 
pink  walls  of  the  room;  watched  his  mother  as  she  sat 
sewing,  but  most  devotedly  of  all  he  watched  through  his 
half-dreaming  lids  his  sister  as  she  read  her  story.  His 
sister  charmed  him  very  much  and  terrified  him  not  a 
little ;  she  was  so  quick,  so  strong,  so  alive  —  she  rushed 
him  so.  He  loved  his  sister,  she  was  his  illustrated 
library  of  fairy  tales  and  wonderful  plays,  she  was  his 
companion,  his  ruler,  his  dominator,  and  his  best  friend. 

"Bella,"  he  whispered  at  the  second  when  she  turned 
the  page  and  he  thought  he  might  venture  to  interrupt, 
"  Bella,  wouldn't  you  read  it  to  me  ?  " 

The  absorbed  child  made  an  impatient  gesture,  bent 
her  head  lower  and  snuggled  down  into  her  feast.  She 
shook  her  mane  of  hair. 

"  Gardiner,"  his  mother  noticed  the  appeal,  "  when 
will  you  learn  to  read  for  yourself?  You  are  a  big  boy." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  so  vewy  big,"  his  tone  was  indolent, 
"  I'm  not  so  big  as  Bella.  You  said  yesterday  that  you 
bought  me  five-year-old  clothes." 

In  the  distance,  above  the  noise  of  the  wind,  came 
the  tinkle  of  the  car-bell.  Gardiner  silently  wished,  as 
he  heard  the  not  unmusical  sound,  that  the  eternal,  ugly 

4 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  5 

little  cars,  with  the  overworked  horses,  could  be  turned 
into  fairy  chariots  and  this  one,  as  it  came  ringing  and 
tinkling  along,  would  stop  at  the  front  door  and  fetch  .  .  . 
A  loud  ring  at  the  front  door  made  the  little  boy  spring 
up. 

His  sister  frowned  and  glanced  up  from  her  book. 
"  It  isn't  father !  "  she  flashed  out  at  him.  "  He's  got  his 
key.  You  needn't  look  scared  yet,  Gardiner.  It  is  a 
bundle  or  a  beggar  or  something  or  other  stupid.  Don't 
disturb." 

However,  the  three  of  them  listened,  and  in  another 
seotfftd  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  was  opened  by  a 
servant  and,  behind  the  maid,  on  the  bare  wood  floor  of 
the  stairs,  there  fell  a  heavy  step  and  a  light  step,  a  light 
step  and  a  heavy  step.  Bella  never  forgot  the  first  time 
she  heard  those  footfalls. 

The  lady  at  the  table  put  her  sewing  down,  and  at 
that  moment,  behind  the  servant,  a  young  man  came  in, 
a  tall  young  man,  holding  out  his  hand  and  smiling  a 
wonderful  and  beautiful  smile. 

"  Aunt  Caroline.  I'm  Antony  Fairfax  from  New 
Orleans.  I've  just  reached  New  York,  and  I  came,  of 
course,  at  once  to  you." 

Not  very  much  later,  as  they  all  stood  about  the  table 
talking,  Bella  uncurled  and  once  upon  her  feet,  astonish- 
ingly tall  for  twelve  years  old,  stood  by  Fairfax's  side, 
while  Gardiner,  an  old-fashioned  little  figure  in  queer 
home-made  clothes,  flushed,  delicate  and  timid,  leaned  on 
his  mother.  The  older  woman  had  stopped  sewing. 
"With  her  work  in  her  lap  she  was  looking  at  the  seventh 
son  of  her  beautiful  sister  of  whom  she  had  been  gently, 
mildly  envious  all  her  life. 

Bella  said  brusquely :  "  You've  got  an  awfully  light 
smile,  Cousin  Antony." 

He  laughed.  "  I  suppose  that  comes  from  an  awfully 
light  heart,  little  cousin !  " 

"  Bella,"  her  mother  frowned,  "  don't  be  personal. 
You  will  learn  not  to  mind  her,  Antony ;  she  is  frightfully 
spoiled." 

The  little  girl  threw  back  her  hair.  "  And  you've 
got  one  light  step,  Cousin  Antony,  and  one  heavy  step. 


No  one  ever  came  up  our  stairs  like  that  before.  How  do 
you  do  it  ?  " 

The  stranger's  face  clouded.  He  had  been  looking 
at  her  with  keen  delight,  and  he  was  caught  up  short  at 
her  words.  He  put  out  his  deformed  shoe. 

"  This  is  the  heavy  step/' 

Bella's  cheeks  had  been  flushed  with  excitement,  but 
the  dark  red  that  rose  at  Fairfax's  words  made  her  look 
like  a  little  Indian. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know!"  she  stammered.  "I  didn't 
know." 

Her  cousin  comforted  her  cheerfully.  "  That's  all 
right.  I  don't  mind.  I  fell  from  a  cherry  tree  when  I 
was  a  little  chap  and  I've  stumped  about  ever  since." 

His  aunt's  gentle  voice,  indifferent  and  soft,  like 
Gardiner's  murmured  — 

"  Oh,  don't  listen  to  her,  Antony,  she's  a  spoiled, 
inconsiderate  little  girl." 

But  Bella  had  drawn  nearer  the  stranger.  She  leaned 
on  the  table  close  to  him  and  lifted  her  face  in  which  her 
eyes  shone  like  stars.  She  had  wounded  him,  and  it 
didn't  seem  to  her  generous  little  heart  that  she  could 
quite  let  it  go.  And  under  her  breath  she  whispered  — 

"  But  there's  the  light  step,  isn't  there,  Cousin  Antony  ? 
And  the  smile  —  the  awfully  light  smile  ?  " 

Fairfax  laughed  and  leaned  forward  as  though  he  would 
catch  her,  but  she  had  escaped  from  under  his  hand  like 
an  elusive  fairy,  and  when  he  next  saw  her  she  was  back 
in  her  corner  with  her  book  on  her  knees  and  her  dark 
hair  covering  her  face. 


CHAPTEE  III 

HE  talked  with  his  aunt  for  a  long  while.  Her  grace  and 
dignity  suggested  his  mother,  but  she  was  not  so  lovely 
as  the  other  woman,  whose  memory  was  always  thrilling 
to  him.  Fairfax  ran  eagerly  on,  on  fire  with  his  subject, 
finally  stopping  himself  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  reckon  I'm  boring  you  to  death,  Aunt  Caroline." 

"  Oh,  no/'  she  breathed,  "  how  can  you  say  so  ?  How 
proud  she  must  be  of  you !  " 

Downstairs  in  the  hall  he  had  left  his  valise  and  his 
little  hand  satchel,  with  the  snow  melting  on  them. 
He  came  from  a  household  whose  hospitality  was  as 
large,  as  warm,  as  bright  as  the  sun.  He  had  made  a 
stormy  passage  by  the  packet  Nore.  His  head  was 
beginning  to  whirl.  From  the  sofa  there  was  not  a  sign. 
Bella  read  ardently,  her  hand  pressing  a  lock  of  her  dark 
hair  across  her  burning  cheek.  Gardiner,  his  eyes  on  his 
cousin,  drank  in,  fascinated,  the  figure  of  the  big,  hand- 
some young  man. 

"  He's  my  relation,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  He's  one 
of  our  family.  I  know  he  can  tell  stories,  and  he's  a 
traveller.  He  came  in  the  fairy  cars." 

Mrs.  Carew  tapped  her  lip  with  her  thimble.  "  So 
you  will  learn  to  model  here,"  she  murmured.  "  Now  I 
wonder  who  would  be  the  best  man  ?  " 

And  Fairfax  responded  quickly,  "  Cedersholm,  auntie, 
he's  the  only  man." 

"  My  husband,"  his  aunt  began  to  blush,  "  your  uncle 
knows  Mr.  Cedersholm  in  the  Century  Club,  but  I  hardly 
think  .  .  ." 

Antony  threw  up  his  bright  head.  "  I  have  brought  a 
letter  from  the  President  to  Cedersholm  and  several  of 
the  little  figures  I  have  modelled." 


8  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"Ah,  that  will  be  better,"  and  his  aunt  breathed  with 
relief.  Mrs.  Carew's  mention  of  her  husband  came  to 
Antony  like  a  sharp  chill.  Nothing  that  had  been  told 
him  of  the  New  York  banker  who  had  married  his  gentle 
aunt  was  calculated  to  inspire  him  with  a  sense  of  kinship. 
It  was  as  though  a  window  had  been  opened  into  the 
bright  room.  A  slight  noise  at  the  door  downstairs  acted 
like  a  current  of  alarm  upon  the  family.  The  colour  left 
his  aunt's  cheeks,  and  little  Gardiner  exclaimed,  "  I  hear 
father's  key."  The  child  came  over  to  his  mother's  side. 
It  seemed  discourteous  to  Antony  to  suggest  going  just 
as  his  uncle  arrived,  so  he  waited  a  moment  in  the  strange 
silence  that  fell  over  the  group.  In  a  few  seconds  Mr. 
Carew  came  in  and  his  wife  presented.  "  My  dear,  this 
is  Antony  Fairfax,  my  sister  Bella's  only  child,  you  know. 
You  remember  Bella,  Henry." 

A  wave  of  red,  which  must  have  been  vigorous  in  order 
to  sweep  in  and  under  the  ruddy  colour  already  in  Carew's 
cheeks,  testified  that  he  did  remember  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
Fairfax. 

"  I  remember  her  very  well,"  he  returned ;  "  is  she  as 
handsome  as  ever?  You  have  chosen  a  cold  day  to  land 
in  the  North.  I  presume  you  came  by  boat?  We  have 
been  two  hours  coming  up  town.  The  cars  are  blocked 
by  snow.  It's  ten  degrees  below  zero  to-night.  I  wish 
you  would  see  that  ashes  are  poured  on  the  front  steps, 
Caroline,  at  once." 

The  guest  put  out  his  hand.     "  I  must  be  going.     Good 

night,   Aunt   Caroline good   night,   Gardiner.     Good 

night,  sir." 

Fairfax  marked  the  ineffectuality  in  his  aunt's  face.  It 
was  neither  embarrassment  nor  shame,  it  was  impotence. 
Her  expression  was  not  appealing,  but  inadequate,  and 
the  slender  hand  that  she  gave  him  melted  in  his  like 
the  snow.  There  was  no  grasp  there,  no  stimulus  to  go  on. 
He  turned  to  the  red  figure  of  the  huddled  child  in  the 
sofa  corner. 

"  Good  night,  little  cousin." 

Bella  dropped  her  book  and  sprang  up.  "  Good  night," 
she  cried ;  "  why,  you're  not  going,  Cousin  Antony  ? 

And  as  the  older  woman  had  done  she  extended  her 
hand.  It  was  only  a  small  child's  hand,  but  the  essential 


was  there.  The  same  sex  but  with  a  different  hand.  It 
did  not  melt  in  Antony's ;  it  lay,  it  clasped,  lost  in  his  big 
palm.  He  felt,  nevertheless,  the  vital  little  grasp,  its 
warmth  and  sweetness  against  his  hand. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

Mr.  Carew  had  passed  out  now  that  he  had  successfully 
eliminated  from  the  mind  of  the  guest  any  idea  that  hos- 
pitality was  to  be  extended.  Once  more  the  little  group 
were  by  themselves. 

"  There  is  the  Buckingham  Hotel,"  Mrs.  Carew  ven- 
tured.., "  It's  an  excellent  hotel ;  we  get  croquettes  from 
there*  when  Gardiner's  appetite  flags.  The  children  have 
their  hair  cut  there  as  well." 

Tired  as  Fairfax  was,  rebuffed  as  he  was,  he  could  not 
but  be  cheered  by  the  bright  look  of  the  little  girl  who 
stood  between  him  and  her  mother.  She  nodded  at  her 
cousin. 

"Why,  the  Buckingham  is  six  dollars  a  day,"  she  said. 
"  I  asked  the  barber  when  he  cut  Gardiner's  hair." 

Fairfax  smiled.  "  I  reckon  that  is  a  little  steep, 
Bella." 

"  It's  too  far  away,  anyhow,  Cousin  Antony,  it's  a 
mile;  twenty  blocks  is  a  New  York  mile.  There  are 
the  Whitcombs."  And  the  child  turned  to  the  less 
capable  woman. 

Her  mother  exclaimed:  "Why,  of  course,  of  course, 
there  are  the  Whitcombs!  My  dear  Antony,"  said  his 
aunt,  "  if  you  could  only  stay  with  them  you  would  be 
doing  a  real  charity.  They  are  dear  little  old  maids  and 
self-supporting  women.  They  sell  their  work  in  my 
women's  exchange.  They  have  a  nice  little  house." 

Bella  interrupted.  "  A  dear  little  red-brick  house, 
Cousin  Antony,  two  stories,  on  the  next  block." 

She  tucked  her  book  under  her  arm  as  though  it  were 
a  little  trunk  she  was  tucking  away  to  get  ready  to  jour- 
ney with  him. 

"  The  Whitcombs  would  be  perfectly  enchanted, 
Antony,"  urged  his  aunt,  "  they  want  a  lodger  badly.  It's 
Number  700,  Madison  Avenue." 

"  It  looks  like  the  house  that  Jack  built,"  murmured 
Gardiner,  dreamily;  "they  have  just  wepainted  it  bwight 
wed  with  yellow  doors.  .  .  ." 


10  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Fairfax  thanked  them  and  went,  his  heavy  and  his 
light  step  echoing  on  the  hard  stairway  of  his  kinsmen's 
inhospitable  house.  Bella  watched  him  from  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  her  book  under  her  arm,  and  below,  at  the 
door,  he  shouldered  his  bag  and  went  out  into  the  whirling, 
whirling  snow.  It  met  him  softly,  like  a  caress,  but  it  was 
very  cold.  Bella  had  said  two  blocks  away  to  the  left, 
and  he  started  blindly. 

This  was  his  welcome  from  his  own  people. 

His  Southern  home  seemed  a  million  miles  away;  but 
come  what  would,  he  would  never  return  to  it  empty- 
handed  as  he  had  left  it.  He  had  been  thrust  from  the 
door  where  he  felt  he  had  a  right  to  enter.  That  threshold 
he  would  never  darken  again  —  never.  A  pile  of  un- 
shovelled  snow  blocked  his  path.  As  he  crossed  the 
street  to  avoid  it,  he  looked  up  at  the  big,  fine  house. 
From  an  upper  window  the  shade  was  lifted,  and  in  the 
square  of  yellow  light  stood  the  two  children,  the  little 
boy's  head  just  visible,  and  Bella,  her  dark  hair  blotting 
against  the  light,  waved  to  him  her  friendly,  cousinly  little 
hand.  He  forged  on  through  the  snow  to  "  The  House 
that  Jack  built." 


CHAPTEE  IV 

HE  was  the  seventh  son,  and  his  mother  was  tired  of  child- 
bearing  when  Antony  was  born.  The  others,  mediocre, 
fine  fellows,  left  to  their  father's  control,  had  turned  out 
as  well  as  children  are  likely  to  turn  out  when  brought 
up  by  a  man.  One  by  one,  during  the  interval  of  years 
before  Antony  came,  one  by  one  they  had  died,  and  when 
Mr.  Fairfax  himself  passed  away,  he  left  his  wife  alone 
with  Antony  a  baby  in  her  arms.  She  then  gave  herself 
up  to  her  grief  and  the  contemplation  of  her  beauty. 
Adored,  spoiled,  an  indifferent  house-keeper,  Mrs.  Fairfax 
was,  nevertheless,  what  is  known  as  a  charming  creature, 
and  a  sincere  artist.  She  had  her  studio,  her  canvases, 
she  wrote  plays  and  songs,  and  nothing,  with  the  ex- 
ception perhaps  of  realities,  for  she  knew  nothing  of  them, 
nothing  made  less  impression  on  her  than  did  her  only 
child,  until  one  day  she  suddenly  remembered  Antony  when 
it  was  too  late. 

He  was  like  his  mother,  but  she  was  unconscious  of 
the  fact.  She  only  knew  him  as  a  rowdy  boy,  fond  of 
sports,  an  alarmingly  rough  fighter,  the  chief  in  the 
neighbourhood  scuffles,  a  vigorous,  out-of-door  boy,  at 
the  head  of  a  yelling,  wild  little  band  that  made  her  nerves 
quiver.  Coloured  servants  and  his  Mammy  soothed 
Antony's  ills  and  washed  his  bruises.  With  a  feeling  of 
shame  he  thrust  aside  his  artistic  inclinations,  lest  his 
comrades  should  call  him  a  milksop,  but  he  drew  copiously 
in  secret,  when  he  was  kept  in  at  school  or  housed  with  a 
cold.  And  from  the  distance  at  which  she  kept  him, 
Antony  worshipped  his  mother.  He  admired  her  hauteur, 
the  proud  cold  loveliness.  His  sunny  nature,  incapable 
of  morose  or  morbid  brooding,  felt  no  neglect.  Late  in 
spring  they  too  had  gone  north  to  a  water  cure  popular 


12  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

with  Louisiana  people,  where  a  more  vigorous  growth  of 
trees  magnetized  Antony,  who  climbed  like  a  squirrel 
and  tore  his  clothes  to  his  heart's  content.  He  had  come 
in  from  a  tramp  and,  scandalized  by  his  rough  and  tumbled 
appearance  as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  swinging  along, 
Mrs.  Fairfax  summoned  her  little  son.  Rocking  idly  on 
the  verandah  she  watched  him  obey  her  call,  and  there 
was  so  much  buoyant  life  in  his  running  step,  such  a  boy's 
grace  and  brightness  about  him  that  he  charmed  her 
beauty-loving  eyes. 

"  Go,  wash  your  face  and  hands  and  bring  your  school 
books  here.  I  do  hope  you  have  brought  your  books  with 
you." 

When  he  reappeared  with  the  volumes  of  dog-eared 
school  books,  she  fingered  them  gingerly,  fell  on  his  drawing 
portfolio  and  opened  it. 

"  Who  drew  these  for  you,  Tony  ?  " 

"  Mother,  no  one.     I  did  them.     They  are  rotten." 

Mrs.  Fairfax  exclaimed  with  excitement :  "  Why, 
they  are  quite  extraordinary!  You  must  study  with 
some  one." 

Blushing,  enraptured,  Antony  was  tongue-tied,  although 
a  host  of  things  rushed  to  his  lips  that  now  he  might  be 
permitted  to  speak  to  her  he  longed  to  tell  everything 
that  was  on  his  heart. 

Neither  of  them  forgot  that  day.  The  wistaria  was 
purple  in  the  vines,  and  his  mother,  a  shawl  with  trailing 
fringe  over  her  shoulders,  rocked  indolent  and  charming 
in  her  chair.  She  had  made  her  husband  and  her  other 
sons  her  slaves,  and  she  remembered  now,  with  a  sense 
of  comfort,  that  she  had  another  servitor. 

"  My  shoe  is  unbuttoned  " —  she  raised  her  small  foot  — 
"  button  it,  Tony." 

The  boy  fell  on  his  knees,  eager  to  offer  his  first  service 
to  the  lovely  woman,  but  his  hands  were  awkward.  He 
bungled  and  pinched  the  delicate  skin.  The  mother  cried 
out,  leaned  over  and  smartly  boxed  his  ears. 

"  Stupid  boy,  go ;  send  me  Emmeline." 

Poor  Antony  retired,  and  as  Emmeline  took  his  place  he 
heard  his  mother  murmur  — 

"  Aren't  the  cherries  ripe  yet,  Emmy  ?  I'm  dying  to 
taste  some  cherries,  they're  so  delicious  in  the  North." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  13 

Emmeline  had  fastened  the  shoe  and  lagged  away  with 
southern  negligence,  leaving  Antony's  books  as  he  had 
flung  them  on  the  porch,  and  though  it  was  an  effort  to 
lean  over,  Mrs.  Fairfax  did  so,  picked  up  the  drawing-book 
and  studied  it  again. 

"  Talented  little  monkey,"  she  mused,  "  he  has  my  gift, 
my  looks  too,  I  think.  How  straight  he  walks!  He  has 
'  V elegance  d'un  homme  du  monde.' '' 

She  called  herself  Creole  and  prided  herself  on  her 
French  and  her  languor. 

She^.sat  musing  thus,  the  book  on  her  knees,  when 
half  an  hour  later  they  carried  him  in  to  her.  He  had 
fallen  from  a  rotten  branch  on  the  highest  cherry  tree  in 
the  grounds. 

He  struck  on  his  hip. 

All  night  she  sat  by  his  side.  The  surgeons  had  told 
her  that  he  would  be  a  cripple  for  life  if  he  ever  walked 
again.  Toward  morning  he  regained  his  senses  and  saw 
her  sitting  there.  Mrs.  Fairfax  remembered  Antony 
that  day.  She  remembered  him  that  day  and  that 
night,  and  his  cry  of  "  Oh,  mother,  I  was  getting  the 
cherries  for  you !  " 

Before  they  built  him  his  big,  awkward  boot,  when  he 
walked  again  at  all,  Antony  went  about  on  crutches, 
debarred  from  boyish  games.  In  order  to  forget  his 
fellows  and  the  school-yard  and  "  the  street "  he  modelled 
in  the  soft  delicious  clay,  making  hosts  of  creatures,  fig- 
ures, heads  and  arms  and  hands,  and  brought  them  in 
damp  from  the  clay  of  the  levee.  His  own  small  room 
was  a  studio,  peopled  by  his  young  art.  No  sooner,  how- 
ever, was  he  strong  again  and  his  big  shoe  built  up,  than 
his  boy-self  was  built  up  as  well,  and  Antony,  lame,  limp- 
ing Antony,  was  out  again  with  his  mates.  He  never 
again  could  run  as  they  did,  but  he  contrived  to  fence  and 
spar  and  box,  and  strangely  enough,  he  grew  tall  and 
strong.  One  day  he  came  into  his  little  room  from  a  ball 
game,  for  he  was  the  pitcher  of  the  nine,  and  found  his 
mother  handling  his  clayey  creatures. 

"  Tony,  when  did  you  do  these  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  are  nothing.  Leave  them  alone,  mother.  I 
meant  to  fire  them  all  out." 


14  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"But  this  is  an  excellent  likeness  of  the  General, 
Tony." 

He  threw  down  his  baseball  mask  and  gloves  and  began 
to  gather  up  unceremoniously  the  little  objects  which  had 
dried  crisp  and  hard. 

"  Don't  destroy  them/'  his  mother  said ;  "  I  want  every 
one  of  them.  And  you  must  stop  being  a  rowdy  and  a 
ruffian,  Antony  —  you  are  an  artist." 

He  was  smoothing  between  his  palms  one  of  the  small 
figures. 

"  Professor  Duf aucon  could  teach  you  something  —  not 
much,  poor  old  gentleman,  but  something  elementary.  To- 
morrow, after  school,  you  must  go  to  take  your  first  lesson." 

Mrs.  Fairfax  took  the  boy  herself,  with  the  bust  of  the 
famous  General  in  her  hands,  and  afterwards  sent  the  bust 
to  Washington,  to  its  subject  himself,  who  was  pleased  to 
commend  the  portrait  made  of  him  by  the  little  Southern 
boy  from  the  clay  of  the  New  Orleans  levee. 

Professor  Dufaucon  taught  him  all  he  knew  of  art 
and  something  of  what  he  knew  of  other  things.  In  the 
small  hall-room  of  the  poor  French  drawing-master, 
Antony  talked  French,  learned  the  elements  of  the  study 
of  beauty  and  listened  to  the  sweet  strains  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's flute  when  he  played,  "J'ai  perdu  ma  tourte- 
relle.  .  .  ." 

In  everything  that  he  modelled  Antony  tried  to  portray 
his  mother's  face.  As  she  had  been  indifferent  to  him 
before,  so  ardently  Mrs.  Fairfax  adored  him  now.  She 
poured  out  her  tenderness  on  this  crippled  boy.  He  had 
been  known  to  say  to  his  Mammy  that  he  was  glad  that 
he  had  fallen  from  the  cherry  tree  because  his  mother 
had  never  kissed  him  before,  and  her  tears  and  her  love, 
he  thought,  were  worth  the  price.  She  was  as  selfish  with 
him  in  her  affection  as  she  had  been  in  her  indifference. 
She  would  not  hear  of  college,  and  he  learned  what  he 
could  in  New  Orleans.  But  the  day  came  when  his  mis- 
tress, art,  put  in  a  claim  so  seductive  and  so  strong  that 
it  clouded  everything  else.  Professor  Dufaucon  died,  and 
in  the  same  year  Antony  sent  a  statuette  to  the  New  York 
Academy  of  Design.  It  was  accepted,  and  the  wine  of  that 
praise  went  to  his  head. 

Mrs.  Fairfax,  broken  as  no  event  in  her  life  had  been 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  15 

able  to  break  her,  saw  Antony  leave  for  the  North  to  seek 
his  fortune  and  his  fame. 

She  owned  her  house  in  Charles  Street,  and  lived  on 
in  it,  and  the  little  income  that  she  had  barely  sufficed 
for  her  needs.  She  showed  what  race  and  what  pride 
she  had  when  she  bade  Antony  good-bye,  standing  under 
the  jasmine  vine.  She  never  wore  any  other  dress  than  a 
loose  morning  robe  of  a  white  or  a  soft  mauve  material. 
Standing  there,  with  a  smile  of  serene  beauty,  she  waved 
her  handkerchief  to  him  as  she  saw  him  go  limping  down 
the  walk  from  the  garden  to  the  street  and  out  of  sight. 
True  to  her  type  then,  she  fainted  dead  away,  and 
Emmeline  and  Mammy  brought  her  to. 

He  thought  of  things  in  Miss  Whitcomb's  front  room. 
There  was  nothing  fairylike  about  the  red-brick  dwelling, 
although  at  the  corner  of  the  New  York  Avenue  these  two 
stories  seemed  diminutive  and  out  of  place.  He  made 
with  the  timid  maiden  ladies  his  own  timid  arrangement. 
He  was  so  poor  and  they  were  so  poor  that  the  transaction 
was  timorous  —  Antony  on  his  part  was  afraid  that  they 
might  not  take  him  in,  they,  on  theirs,  were  terrified  lest 
the  lodger  would  not  come  in.  When  at  length  they  left 
him  alone,  his  first  feeling  was  gratitude  for  a  room  of 
any  kind  that  represented  shelter  from  the  Northern  cold, 
but  when  he  had  divested  himself  of  his  coat,  he  realized 
that  the  little  unheated  room  was  as  cold  as  the  outside. 
A  meagre  bed,  a  meagre  bureau  and  washstand,  two 
unwelcoming  chairs,  these  few  inanimate  objects  were 
shut  in  with  Antony,  and  unattractive  as  they  were,  they 
were  appealing  in  their  scant  ugliness.  Before  the  window 
slight  white  curtains  hung,  the  same  colour  as  the  snow 
without.  They  hung  like  little  shrouds.  Around  the 
windows  of  his  Southern  home  the  vine  had  laid  its  beauty, 
and  the  furnishings  had  been  comfortable  and  tasteful. 
The  homelessness  of  this  interior,  to  the  young  man  who 
had  never  passed  a  night  from  under  his  own  roof,  struck 
with  a  chill,  and  he  thought  of  the  sitting-room  in  the 
vast  house  of  his  kinsmen  not  a  block  away.  His  kins- 
people  had  not  even  asked  him  to  break  bread.  Dressed 
as  he  was,  he  lay  down  exhausted  on  his  bed,  and  when 
a  knock  came  and  Miss  "Vfhitcomb's  voice  invited  him  to 
supper,  Fairfax  sprang  up  and  answered  as  out  of  a  dream. 


CHAPTEE  V 

His  fortune  of  twenty-five  dollars  he  divided  into  five 
equal  packets.  His  weekly  bill  with  the  old  ladies,  to 
whom  his  aunt  had  begged  Antony  to  go  in  charity,  was 
to  be  six  dollars.  There  would  of  course  be  extras,  car- 
fare and  so  forth.  With  economy  —  it  would  last.  An- 
tony saw  everything  on  the  bright  side;  youth  and  talent 
can  only  imagine  that  the  best  will  last  for  ever.  De- 
cidedly, before  his  money  gave  out  he  would  have  found 
some  suitable  employment. 

With  the  summons  for  supper  he  flung  on  his  coat, 
plunged  downstairs  and  into  the  dining-room,  and  shone 
upon  his  hostesses  over  their  tea  and  preserves.  The 
new  boarder  chatted  and  planned  and  listened,  jovial  and 
kindly,  his  soul's  good-fellowship  and  sweet  temper  shed- 
ding a  radiance  in  the  chill  little  room.  Miss  Eulalie 
Whitcomb  was  in  the  sixties,  and  she  fell  in  love  with 
Antony  in  a  motherly  way.  Miss  Mitty  was  fifteen  years 
her  junior,  and  she  fell  in  love  with  Antony  as  a  woman 
might.  Fairfax  never  knew  the  poignant  ache  he  caused 
in  that  heart,  virginal  only,  cold  only  because  of  the  pro- 
longed winter  of  her  maidenhood. 

That  night  he  heard  his  aunt's  praises  sung,  and 
listened,  going  back  with  a  pang  to  the  picture  the  family 
group  had  made  before  his  home-loving  eyes. 

Such  a  marvellous  woman,  Mr.  Fairfax  (she  must 
call  him  Antony  if  he  was  to  live  with  them.  Miss  Mitty 
couldn't.  She  must.  Well,  Mr.  Antony  then),  such  a 
brilliant  and  executive  woman.  Mrs.  Carew  had  founded 
the  Women's  Exchange  for  the  work  of  indigent  ladies, 
such  a  dignified,  needed  charity. 

Miss  Mitty  knew  a  little  old  lady  who  made  fifteen 
hundred  dollars  in  rag  dolls  alone. 

16 


17 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Fairfax,  "  couldn't  you  pass  me  off 
for  a  niece,  Miss  Whitcomb?  I  can  make  clay  figures 
that  will  beat  rag  dolls  to  bits." 

Fifteen  hundred  dollars !  He  mused  on  his  aunt's 
charity. 

"  And  another,"  murmured  Miss  Eulalie,  "  another 
friend  of  ours  made  altogether  ten  thousand  dollars  in 
chicken  pies." 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  the  lodger,  "  that's  even  easier  to 
believe.  And  does  my  uncle  Carew  make  pies  or  dolls  ?  " 

"JEJe  is  a  pillar  of  the  Church,"  said  his  hostess 
gravely,  "  a  very  distinguished  gentleman,  Mr.  Antony. 
He  bowed  once  to  one  of  us  in  the  street.  Which  of  us 
was  it,  sister  ?  " 

Not  Miss  Mitty,  at  any  rate,  and  she  was  inclined  to 
think  that  Mr.  Carew  had  made  a  mistake,  whichever  way 
it  had  been ! 

Their  lodger  listened  with  more  interest  when  they 
spoke  of  the  children.  The  little  creatures  wont  to  school 
near  the  Whitcomb  house.  Gardiner  was  always  ailing. 
Miss  Mitty  used  to  watch  them  from  her  window. 

"  Bella  runs  like  a  deer  down  the  block,  you  never 
saw  such  nimble  legs,  and  her  skirts  are  so  short!  They 
should  come  down,  Mr.  Antony,  and  her  hair  is  quite  like 
a  wild  savage's." 

Miss  Eulalie  had  called  Bella  in  once  to  mend  a  hole 
in  her  stocking  "  really  too  bad  for  school." 

"  She  should  have  gone  into  the  Women's  Exchange," 
suggested  her  cousin,  "  and  employed  some  one  who  was 
out  of  orders  for  chicken  pies  or  dolls  !  " 

That  night,  under  the  gas  jet  and  its  blue  and  ghastly 
light,  Fairfax  tried  to  write  to  his  mother,  began  his 
letter  and  left  it  as  he  began.  "  My  dearest  Mother  .  .  ." 
She  had  told  him  little  of  his  kinspeople,  the  sisters  had 
never  been  friends.  Nevertheless,  he  quite  understood 
that,  whatever  she  might  have  thought  of  the  eccen- 
tricities of  his  uncle,  this  welcome  to  her  boy  would  cut 
her  cruelly.  She  had  fully  expected  him  to  be  a  guest  at 
the  Carews. 

"  My  dearest  Mother  .  .  ."  He  began  to  draw  idly  on 
the  page.  A  spray  of  jasmine  uncurled  its  leaves  beneath 


18  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

his  hand.  Across  his  shoulders  he  felt  the  coldness  of 
the  room  where  he  sat.  A  few  more  hurried  strokes  and 
Fairfax  had  indicated  on  the  page  before  him  a  child's 
head  —  an  upturned  face.  As  he  rounded  the  chin,  An- 
tony saw  that  the  sketch  would  be  likely  to  charm  him, 
and  he  was  tired  out  and  cold.  He  threw  down  his  pen, 
dragged  out  his  valise,  opened  it,  took  out  his  things  and 
prepared  for  his  first  night's  rest  in  the  city  of  his  un- 
friendly kinsmen. 


IF  it  had  been  only  spring,  or  any  season  less  brutal  than 
this  winter,  whose  severity  met  him  at  times  with  a 
fresh  rebuff  and  a  fresh  surprise  —  if  it  had  been  spring, 
Antony  would  have  procrastinated,  hung  back,  unaccus- 
tomed as  he  was  to  taking  quick,  decisive  action,  but  the 
ugliness  of  the  surroundings  at  Miss  Whitcombs'  and  the 
bitter  winter  weather  forced  him  to  a  decision.  In  the 
three  following  days  he  visited  every  one  of  the  few 
studios  that  existed  at  that  period  in  New  York.  What 
were  his  plans?  What  were  his  ideas?  But,  when  he 
came  face  to  face  with  the  reality  of  the  matter-of-fact 
question,  he  had  no  plans.  Idealistic,  impractical, 
untried  and  unschooled,  he  faced  the  fact  that  he  had  no 
plan  or  idea  whatsoever  of  how  to  forge  his  life :  he  never 
had  had  any  and  his  mother  had  given  him  no  advice. 
He  wanted  to  work  at  art,  but  how  and  where  he  did 
not  know.  Some  of  the  studios  could  use  models  — 
Fairfax  burned  at  the  thought.  He  could  not  study 
as  a  pupil  and  live  on  air.  No  one  wanted  practical 
workmen. 

The  man  he  most  wanted  to  see  was  Gunner  Ceders- 
holm.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  works  of  the 
Swedish  master  as  he  had  seen  them  in  photograph  and 
plaster  cast  at  the  exposition  in  New  Orleans.  He  had 
read  all  the  accounts  in  the  papers  he  could  find  of  .the 
great  Swede.  When  he  learned  that  Gunner  Cedersholm 
was  in  Europe  and  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  see  him 
until  spring,  poor  Antony  longed  to  stow  himself  on  a 
ship  and  follow  the  artist. 

Meanwhile,  the  insignificant  fact  that  an  insignificant 
piece  of  modelling  had  been  accepted  by  an  inadvertent 
jury  and  placed  in  the  New  York  Academy,  began  to 

19 


20  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

appear  to  him  ridiculous.  He  had  not  ventured  to 
mention  this  to  any  one,  and  the  fact  that  at  his  fingers' 
ends  lay  undoubted  talent  began  to  seem  to  him  a  useless 
thing  as  well.  The  only  moment  of  balm  he  knew  came 
to  him  one  afternoon  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  This 
museum  was  at  that  period  sparsely  dowered.  Fairfax 
stood  before  a  plaster  figure  of  Rameses,  and  for 
the  first  time  the  young  artist  saw  around  him  the 
effigies  of  an  art  long  perfect,  long  retained  and  long 
dead. 

Turning  down  through  the  Egyptian  room,  his  over- 
coat on  his  arm,  for,  thank  Heaven,  the  place  was  warmed, 
his  beauty-loving  eyes  fell  on  the  silent  objects  whose 
presence  was  meed  and  balm.  He  took  in  the  nourish- 
ment of  the  food  to  his  senses  and  the  colour  in  his  cheeks 
brightened,  the  blue  deepened  in  his  eyes.  He  was 
repeating  the  line :  "  Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and 
slow  Time  .  .  ."  when  two  living  objects  caught  his 
attention,  in  a  room  beyond  devoted  to  a  collection  of 
shells.  Before  a  low  case  stood  the  figure  of  a  very  little 
boy  in  a  long  awkward  ulster  and  jockey  cap,  and  by  his 
side,  in  a  conspicuously  short  crimson  skirt  and  a  rough 
coat,  was  a  little  girl.  Her  slender  legs  and  her  abundant 
hair  that  showered  from  beneath  a  crimson  tam-o'-shanter 
recalled  Miss  Mitty's  description  of  Bella;  but  Antony 
knew  her  for  herself  when  she  turned. 

"  Cousin  Antony ! "  She  rushed  at  him.  Childlike, 
the  two  made  no  reference  to  the  lapse  of  time  between 
his  first  visit  and  this  second  meeting.  Gardiner  took 
his  hand  and  Antony  thought  the  little  boy  clung  to  it, 
seized  it  with  singular  appealing  force,  as  though  he  made 
a  refuge  of  the  strong  clasp.  Bella  greeted  him  with  her 
eager,  brilliant  look,  then  she  rapidly  glanced  round  the 
room,  deserted  save  for  themselves. 

"  Something  perfectly  fearful  happened  last  week, 
Cousin  Antony.  Yes,  Gardiner,  I  will  tell.  Anyhow, 
it's  all  over  now,  thank  the  stars."  (He  learned  to  hear 
her  thank  these  silent  heavenly  guardians  often.)  "What 
do  you  think?  Last  week  we  came  here,  Gardiner  and 
me,  we  come  often.  We  play  with  the  ancient  Egyptians. 
I'm  Cleopatra  and  Gardiner's  different  things,  and  there's 
a  guardian  here  that  we  specially  like  because  he  taught 


21 

us  things  useful  for  school  if  you  have  a  weak  memory. 
This  is  how  you  remember  the  poets  — 

Shakespeare,  Milton,   Byron,  Pope, 
Go  upstairs  and  get  some  soap. 

So  you  see  we  can't  forget  them  like  that.  And  Shake- 
speare's birth  and  death  I  never  could  remember  till  he 
taught  me  — 

Fifteen  hundred  and  sixty-four 
Shakespeare  first  was  heard  to  roar. 
Sixteen  hundred  and  sixteen 
Billy  Shakespeare  last  was  seen. 

When  your  memory's  weak  it's  a  great  help,  Cousin 
Antony.  Then  what  do  you  think  Gardiner  did  ?  " 

Here  Fairfax  was  more  than  ever  sensible  of  the 
little  boy's  clinging  hand.  He  looked  down  at  the 
sensitive,  flushed  face,  and  the  fascinated  eyes  of  Gardiner 
were  fixed  on  the  vigorous,  ardent  little  sister. 

"  Well,"  said  Antony,  cordially,  "  I  reckon  it's  not  any- 
thing very  bad,  little  cousin." 

He  led  them  to  a  bench  under  the  calm  serene  chaper- 
onage  of  Rameses  who  kept  sentinel  over  them. 

"  Bad,"  whispered  Bella,  "  why  it  was  the  worst 
thing  you  can  possibly  imagine,  Cousin  Antony.  He 
stole." 

The  child's  voice  dropped  solemnly  and  the  silence 
that  fell  in  the  museum  was  impressive,  even  though 
the  situation  was  humorous.  Gardiner,  whom  Antony 
had  lifted  on  his  knee,  raised  his  head  and  looked  his 
cousin  mildly  in  the  eyes. 

"  It  was  a  shell,"  he  said  slowly,  "  a  blue  and  bwown 
shell.  Nobody  was  looking  and  I  took  it  home." 

He  confessed  calmly  and  without  shame,  and  his 
sister  said  — 

"  The  guardian  was  cleaning  the  cases.  I  think  they 
trusted  us,  Cousin  Antony,  we  were  alone  here,  and  it 
makes  it  much  worse,  When  we  got  home  Gardiner 
showed  it  to  me,  and  we  have  had  to  wait  a  week  to  come 
back  and  restore  it." 

"  I  westored  it,"  repeated  the  boy,  "  Bella  made  me." 

With  his  diminutive  hand  he  made  a  shell  and 
discoursed  regretfully  — 


22  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

"  It  was  a  perfectly  lovely  shell.  It's  over  there  in 
its  place.  Bella  made  me  put  it  back  again." 

"  The  worst  of  it  is/'  said  the  sister,  "  that  he  doesn't 
seem  to  care.  He  doesn't  mind  being  a  thief." 

"  Well,"  laughed  Antony,  "  don't  you  trouble  about 
it,  Bella  honey,  you  have  been  a  policeman  and  a  judge 
and  a  benefactor  all  in  one,  and  you  have  brought  the 
booty  back.  Come,"  said  Fairfax,  "there's  the  man  that 
shuts  us  out  and  the  shells  in,  and  we  must  go."  And 
they  were  all  three  at  the  park  gate  in  the  early  twilight 
before  the  children  asked  him  — • 

"  Cousin  Antony,  where  have  you  been  all  these 
days?" 

He  saw  the  children  to  their  own  door,  and  on  the 
way  little  Gardiner  complained  that  his  shoes  were  tight, 
so  his  cousin  carried  him,  and  nearly  carried  Bella,  who, 
linking  her  arm  firmly  in  his,  walked  close  to  him,  and, 
unobserved  by  Antony,  with  sympathetic  gallantry, 
copied  his  limp  all  the  way  home. 

Their  companionship  had  been  of  the  most  perfect. 
He  learned  where  they  roller  skated,  and  which  were  the 
cracks  to  avoid  in  the  pavement,  and  which  were  the 
treasure  lots.  He  saw  where,  in  dreary  excavations,  where 
plantain  and  goatweed  grew,  Bella  found  stores  of  quartz 
and  flints,  and  where  she  herded  the  mangy  goat  when 
the  Irish  ragpickers  were  out  ragpicking. 

Under  his  burden  of  Gardiner  Antony's  heart  had, 
nevertheless,  grown  light,  and  before  they  had  reached 
the  house  he  had  murmured  to  them,  in  his  rich  singing 
voice,  Spartacus'  address  to  the  gladiators,  and  where 
it  says :  "  Oh,  Borne,  Eome,  thou  hast  been  a  tender  nurse 
to  me;  thou  hast  given  to  the  humble  shepherd  boy 
muscles  of  iron  and  a  heart  of  steel," —  where  these  eloquent 
words  occurred  he  was  obliged  to  stand  still  on  Madison 
Avenue,  with  the  little  boy  in  his  arms,  to  give  the  lines 
their  full  impressiveness. 

Once  deposited  on  the  steps,  where  Fairfax  looked  to 
see  rise  the  effigies  of  the  ashes  his  uncle  had  ordered 
scattered,  Gardiner  seemed  hardly  able  to  crawl. 

Trevelyan  encouraged  him:  "Brace  up,  Gardiner, 
be  a  man." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  23 

And  the  child  had  mildly  responded  that  "his  bones 
were  tired."  His  sister  supported  him  maternally  and 
helped  him  up,  nodding  to  Antony  that  she  would  look 
after  her  little  brother,  and  Antony  heard  the  boy  say  — 

"  Six  and  six  are  twelve,  Bella,  and  you're  both,  and 
I'm  only  one  of  them.  How  can  you  expect.  .  .  ?  " 

Antony  expected  by  this  time  nothing. 

And  when  that  night  the  eager  Miss  Whitcombs 
handed  him  a  letter  from  his  aunt,  with  the  heading  780, 
Madison  Avenue,  in  gold,  he  eagerly  tore  it  open. 

"  My  dear  Antony,"  the  letter  ran,  "  the  children 
shoufd  have  drawing  lessons,  Gardiner  especially  draws 
constantly;  I  think  he  has  talent.  Will  you  come  and 
teach  them  three  times  a  week?  I  don't  know  about 
remuneration  for  such  things,  except  as  the  school  bills 
indicate.  Shall  we  say  twenty  dollars  a  term  —  and  I 
am. not  clear  as  to  what  a  'term'  is!  In  music  lessons, 
for  instance — "  (She  had  evidently  made  some  cal- 
culations and  scratched  it  out,  and  here  the  price  was 
dropped  for  ever  and  ever.) 

To  an  unpractical  woman  such  a  drop  is  always 
soothing,  and  to  a  sensitive  pauper  probably  no  less  so. 
The  letter  ended  with  the  suggestion  to  Antony  that  he 
meet  them  in  their  own  pew  on  Sunday  morning  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Presbyterian  Church,  and  that  he  return 
with  them  for  dinner. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

HE  succeceded  in  keeping  from  the  kind  and  curious 
interest  of  the  little  ladies  the  state  of  his  mind  and  his 
pocket,  and  his  intentions.  It  had  not  been  easy,  for 
when  their  courteous  hints  brought  no  satisfaction,  Miss 
Eulalie  and  Miss  Mitty  asked  Fairfax  out  boldly  what  he 
*'  was  going  to  do "  ?  Miss  Mitty,  on  whom  the  task  of 
doing  up  the  hall  room  had  fallen,  dreamed  over  the 
sketches  she  found  (in  his  valise).  Spellbound,  she  held 
in  her  hand  a  small  head  of  a  dryad,  and  modestly  covered 
up  with  her  handkerchief  a  tiny  figure  whose  sweet 
nudity  had  startled  her.  Antony  parried  questions.  He 
had  come  to  seek  Fortune.  So  far  it  rolled  before  him 
with  the  very  devil  in  its  tantalizing  wheel,  but  he  did 
not  say  this  to  Miss  Whitcomb.  Miss  Eulalie  suggested 
to  him  that  his  uncle  "  could  make  a  place  for  him  in 
the  bank,"  but  Fairfax's  short  reply  cooled  her  enthusiasm, 
and  both  ladies  took  their  cue.  In  the  first  week  he  had 
exhausted  his  own  projects  and  faced  the  horrible  thought 
of  disaster. 

His  nature  was  not  one  to  harbour  anything  but 
sweetness,  and  the  next  day,  Sunday,  when  the  sunlight 
poured  upon  New  York,  he  thought  of  the  little  cousins 
and  decided  to  accept  his  aunt's  invitation.  The  sky  was 
cloudless  and  under  its  hard  blue  the  city  looked  colder 
and  whiter  than  ever.  It  was  a  sky  which  in  New  Orleans 
would  have  made  the  birds  sing.  The  steeples  sang,  one 
slender  tower  rocking  as  its  early  ringing  bells  sang  out 
its  Sunday  music  on  the  next  corner  of  the  street,  and 
Antony  listened  as  he  dressed,  and  recognized  the  melody. 
He  found  it  beautiful  and  sang  in  his  young  voice  as  he 
shaved  and  tied  his  cravat,  and  made  himself  impeccable 
for  the  Presbyterian  Church.  His  own  people  were  High 

24 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  25 

Church  Episcopalians^  and  from  the  tone  and  music  of 
these  bells  he  believed  that  they  rang  in  an  Episcopal 
building.  There  was  no  melancholy  in  the  honied  tone 
of  the  chime,  and  it  gave  him  a  glow  that  went  with  him 
happily  throughout  the  dreary  day. 

He  found  himself  between  the  children  in  the  deep 
dark  pew,  where  the  back  of  the  seat  was  especially  con- 
trived to  seize  the  sinner  in  a  sensitive  point,  and  it 
clutched  Antony  and  made  him  think  of  all  the  crimes 
that  he  had  ever  committed.  Fortunately  it  met  Bella 
and  Gardiner  at  their  heads.  Antony's  position  between 
the  children  was  not  without  danger.  He  was  to  serve 
as  a  quieter  for  Bella's  nerves,  spirits  and  perpetual 
motion,  and  to  guard  against  Gardiner's  somnolence. 
He  remained  deaf  to  Bella's  clear  whispers,  and  settled 
Gardiner  comfortably  and  propped  him  up.  Finally 
the  little  boy  fell  securely  against  the  cousinly  arm.  At 
the  end  of  the  pew,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  were  absorbed, 
she  in  her  emotional  interest  in  the  pastor,  a  brilliant 
Irishman  who  thundered  for  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Carew 
in  his  own  importance  and  his  position.  Antony  remem- 
bered Miss  Mitty  and  that  his  uncle  was  a  pillar  of  the 
Church,  and  he  watched  the  pillar  support  in  grave 
pomposity  his  part  of  the  edifice. 

But  neither  time  nor  place  nor  things  eternal  nor  things 
present  affected  the  little  girl  at  Antony's  side.  Sunk  in 
the  deep  pew,  unobserved  and  sheltered  by  Antony's  figure, 
she  lived  what  she  called  her  "  Sunday  pew  life,"  lived  it 
as  ardently  as  she  did  everything.  After  a  short  interval 
in  which  she  pored  over  the  open  hymnbook,  she  whispered 
to  him 

"  Cousin  Antony,  I  have  learned  the  whole  hymn,  ten 
verses  in  five  minutes.  Hear  me." 

He  tried  to  ignore  her,  but  he  was  obliged  to  hear  her 
as  with  great  feeling  and  in  a  soft  droning  undertone  she 
murmured  the  hymn  through. 

" '  Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  eventide.'  Isn't  it 
perfectly  beautiful,  Cousin  Antony?  " 

This  done,  she  took  off  her  yellow  kid  gloves  carefully, 
finger  by  finger,  and  blew  them  out  into  a  shapely  little 
hand  like  Zephyr's,  to  the  dangerous  amusement  of  a 
child  in  the  next  pew.  Antony  confiscated  the  gloves. 


26  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

By  squeezing  tip  her  eyes  and  making  a  lorgnon  of  her 
pretty  bare  hand,  Bella  scrutinized  the  solemn  preacher. 
Antony  severely  refused  her  pencils  and  paper  and 
remained  deaf  to  her  soft  questions,  and,  thrown  on  her 
own  resources,  Bella  extracted  her  father's  huge  Bible 
from  the  rack  and,  to  Fairfax's  relief,  with  much  turning 
of  the  leaves  she  finally  found  a  favourite  chapter  in 
Revelation  and  settled  down  and  immersed  herself  in  the 
Apocalypse.  She  read  with  fervour,  her  bonnet  back  on 
her  rebellious  hair,  her  legs  crossed  in  defiance  of  every 
rule  of  polite  demeanour.  Something  of  the  sermon's 
eloquent,  passionate  savagery  was  heard  by  Fairfax,  and 
at  the  close,  as  the  preacher  rose  to  his  climax,  Bella 
heard  too.  At  the  text,  "There  shall  be  no  more  night 
there,  neither  candle  nor  light  of  the  sun,"  she  shut  her 
book. 

"  He  is  preaching  from  my  chapter,  Cousin  Antony/' 
she  whispered ;  "  isn't  it  perfectly  beautiful  ?  " 

Fairfax  learned  to  wait  for  this  phrase  of  hers,  a  ready 
approval  of  sensuous  and  lovely  and  poetic  things.  He 
learned  to  wait  for  it  as  one  does  for  a  word  of  praise  from 
a  sympathetic  companion.  Gardiner  woke  up  and 
yawned,  and  Fairfax  got  him  on  his  feet:  his  tumbled 
blonde  head  reached  just  to  the  hyrnnbook  rail.  He  was 
a  pretty  picture  with  his  flushed  soft  cheeks,  red  as  roses, 
and  his  sleepy  eyes  wide.  So  they  stood  for  the  solemn 
benediction,  "  The  love  of  God  ...  go  with  you  .  .  . 
always." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HE  decided  not  to  be  the  one  to  shut  doors  against  himself. 
If  life  as  it  went  on  chose  with  backward  fling  to  close 
portals  behind  him  of  its  own  accord,  he  at  least  would 
not  assist  fate,  and  with  both  hands,  generously,  as  his 
heart  was  generous,  Fairfax  threw  all  gates  wide.  There- 
fore with  no  arriere  pensee  or  any  rankling  thought,  he 
went  on  the  appointed  afternoon  to  teach  his  little  cousins 
the  rudiments  of  drawing. 

The  weather  continued  brutal,  grew  more  severe 
rather,  and  smartly  whipped  him  up  the  avenue  and 
hurled  him  into  the  house.  He  arrived  covered  with 
snow,  white  as  Santa  Glaus,  and  he  heard  by  the  voices 
at  the  stair  head  that  he  was  welcome.  The  three  were 
alone,  the  upper  floor  had  been  assigned  to  the  drawing 
party.  It  was  a  big  room  full  of  forgotten  things,  tons  of 
books  that  people  had  ceased  to  want  to  read,  the  linen 
chest,  a  capital  hiding-place  where  a  soft  hand  beneath 
the  lid  might  prevent  a  second  Mistletoe  Bough  tragedy. 
There  were  old  trunks  stored  there,  boxes  which  could 
not  travel  any  more,  one  of  which  had  been  on  a  wedding 
journey  and  still  contained,  amongst  less  poetic  objects, 
mother's  wedding  slippers.  There  was  a  dear  disorder 
in  the  big  room  whose  windows  overlooked  Madison  and 
Fifth  Avenues,  and  the  distant,  black  wintry  trees  of 
Central  Park.  A  child  on  either  side  of  him,  Fairfax 
surveyed  his  workshop,  and  he  thought  to  himself,  "  I 
could  model  here,  if  I  only  had  some  clay/' 

Bella  had  already  installed  herself.  Their  tables  and 
their  boards  and  a  prodigal  outlay  of  pencils  and  paper 
were  in  themselves  inspiring. 

"  There  is  no  chair  high  enough  for  Gardiner,"  Bella 
said,  "  but  we  can  build  him  one  up  out  of  books." 

27 


28  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  I'd  wather  sit  on  Cousin  Antony's  lap,"  said  the  little 
boy ;  "  built-up  books  shake  me  off  so,  Bella." 

Both  children  wore  blue  gingham  play  aprons.  Fairfax 
told  them  they  looked  like  real  workmen  in  a  real  studio, 
with  which  idea  they  were  much  delighted. 

"  Gardiner  looks  like  a  charity  child,"  said  his  sister, 
"in  that  apron,  and  his  hair's  too  long."  It  ought  to  be 
cut,  but  I  gave  my  solemn  word  of  honour  that  I  wouldn't 
cut  it  again." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  your  famoun  Buckingham 
barber  ?  "  asked  the  cousin. 

"  It's  too  far  for  Gardiner  to  walk,"  she  returned,  "  and 
we  have  lost  our  last  ten  cents.  Besides,  it's  thirty-five 
cents  to  get  a  hair-cut." 

Fairfax  had  placed  the  boy  before  his  drawing  board, 
and  confiscated  a  long  piece  of  kitchen  bread,  telling  Bella 
that  less  than  a  whole  loaf  was  enough  for  an  eraser,  ex- 
tracted the  rubber  from  Gardiner's  mouth,  and  sat  down 
by  the  little  boy's  side. 

"  There's  not  much  money  in  this  house,  Cousin 
Antony,"  Bella  informed  him  when  the  stance  opened. 
"  Please  let  me  use  the  soft  pencils,  will  you  ?  They  slide 
like  delicious  velvet." 

Fairfax  made  an  equal  division  of  the  implements, 
avoiding  a  scene,  and  made  Bella  a  straight  line  across 
the  page.  « 

"  Draw  a  line  under  it." 

"  But  any  one  can  draw  a  straight  line,"  said  Bella, 
scornfully,  "  and  I  don't  think  they  are  very  pretty." 

"  Don't  you  ? "  he  answered ;  "  the  horizon  is  pretty, 
don't  you  think  ?  And  the  horizon  is  a  straight  line." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Gardiner,  "  the  howizon  is  where  the 
(street  cars  fall  over  into  the  sunset." 

"  Gardiner's  only  six,"  said  Bella,  apologetically,  "  you 
mustn't  expect  much  of  him,  Cousin  Antony." 

She  curled  over  the  table  and  bent  her  head  and 
broke  her  pencils  one  by  one,  and  Fairfax  guided  Gardiner's 
hand  and  watched  the  little  girl.  She  was  lightly  and 
finely  made.  From  under  her  short  red  skirt  the  pretty 
leg  in  its  woollen  stocking  swung  to  and  fro.  There  was 
a  hole  in  the  stocking  heel,  visible  above  the  tiny,  tiny 
slipper.  Through  the  crude  dark  collar  of  the  gingham 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  29 

apron  came  her  dark  head  and  its  wild  torrent  of  curling 
hair,  wonderful  hair,  tangled  and  unkempt,  curling 
roundly  at  the  ends,  and  beneath  the  locks  the  curve  of 
her  cheek  was  like  ivory.  She  was  a  Southern  beauty  — 
her  little  red  mouth  twisted  awry  over  her  drawing. 

"  I  thought  dwawing  was  making  pictures,  Cousin 
Antony;  if  I'd  have  known  it  was  lines,  I  wouldn't  have 
taken/'  said  his  youngest  cousin. 

"  You  have  to  begin  with  those  things,  old  man. 
I'll  wipe  your  hands  off  on  my  handkerchief." 

"  Please  do,"  said  the  little  boy ;  "  my  hands  leak  awful 
easy*" 

His  sister  laughed  softly,  and  said  to  herself  in  an 
undertone  — 

"  I've  drawn  my  lines  long  —  long  —  ago,  and  now  I'm 
making  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  make  anything,  Bella,  until  I  tell  you  to," 
commanded  her  teacher,  and  glanced  over  her  page  where 
she  had  covered  the  paper  with  her  big  formless  hand- 
writing, "  Dramatiss  personi,  first  act." 

"  Why,  I  had  a  lovely  idea  for  a  play,  Cousin  Antony, 
and  I  thought  I'd  just  jot  it  down.  We're  the  company, 
Gardiner  and  I,  and  we  give  plays  here  every  now  and 
then.  You  can  play  too,  if  you  like,  and  say  '  Spar- 
tacus.'  Ah,  say  it  now." 

Trevelyan  felt  the  appealing  little  hand  of  the  boy  steal- 
ing into  his. 

"  Do,  please,"  he  urged ;  "  I  don't  want  ever  to  draw 
again,  never,  never." 

"  Hush,"  said  his  sister  severely,  "  you  mustn't  say  that, 
Gardiner ;  Cousin  Antony  is  our  drawing  master." 

Gardiner's  sensitive  face  flushed.  "  I  thought  he  was 
only  my  cousin,"  said  the  child,  and  continued  timidly, 
"  I'll  dwaw  a  howizon  now  and  then  if  you  want  me  to, 
but  I'd  wather  not." 

They  left  their  tables.  Fairfax  said,  "I'm  no  good 
at  teaching,  Bella."  He  stretched  his  arms.  "  I  reckon 
you're  not  much  good  at  learning  either.  Gardiner's  too 
young  and  you're  not  an  artist." 

"  Say  about  the  '  timid  shepherd  boy,'  Cousin  Antony." 

He  had  taken  his  coat  off  in  the  furnace-heated  room 
and  stood  in  his  snowy  shirt  sleeves,  glad  to  be  released 


30  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

from  the  unwelcome  task  of  teaching  restless  children.  He 
loved  the  ring  and  the  thrill  of  the  words  and  declaimed  the 
lines  enthusiastically. 

"You  look  like  a  gladiator,  Cousin  Antony,"  Bella 
cried ;  "  you  must  have  a  perfectly  splendid  muscle." 

He  bared  his  right  arm,  carried  away  by  his  recitation 
and  the  picture  evoked.  The  children  admired  the 
sinews  and  the  swelling  biceps.  Gardiner  touched  it 
with  his  little  fingers ;  the  muscular  firm  arm,  ending  in  the 
vigorous  wrist,  held  their  fascinated  gaze.  The  sculptor 
himself  looked  up  it  with  pardonable  approval. 

"  Feel  mine,"  said  Gardiner,  crimson  with  the  exertion 
of  lifting  his  tiny  arm  to  the  position  of  his  cousin's. 

"  Immense,  Gardiner ! "  Fairfax  complimented, 
"  immense." 

"  Feel  mine,"  cried  Bella,  and  the  sculptor  touched 
between  his  fingers  the  fine  little  member. 

"  Great,  little  cousin !  " 

"  I'll  be  the  gladiator's  wife  and  applaud  him  from  the 
Coliseum  and  throw  flowers  on  him." 

Fairfax  lingered  with  them  another  hour,  laughing 
at  his  simplicity  in  finding  them  such  companions.  With 
compunction,  he  endeavoured  to  take  up  his  lesson  again 
with  Bella,  unwilling  and  recalcitrant.  She  drew  a  few 
half-hearted  circles,  a  page  of  wobbly  lines,  and  at  the 
suspicion  of  tears  Fairfax  desisted,  surprised  to  find  how 
the  idea  of  tears  from  her  touched  him.  Then  in  the 
window  between  them,  he  watched  as  the  children  told 
him  they  always  did,  for  "mother's  car  to  come 
home." 

"  She  is  sharping,"  exclaimed  Gardiner,  slowly ;  "  she 
has  to  sharp  very  hard,  my  mother  does.  She  comes 
back  in  the  cars,  only  she  never  comes,"  he  finished  with 
patient  fatality. 

"  Silly,"  exclaimed  his  sister,  "  she  always  comes  at 
dinner-time.  And  we  bet  on  the  cars,  Cousin  Antony. 
Now  let's  say  it  will  be  the  seventy-first.  We  have  to 
put  it  far  away  off,"  she  explained,  "  'cause  we're  beginning 
early." 

Fairfax  left  them,  touched  by  their  patience  in  watch- 
ing for  the  mother  bird.  He  promised  to  return  soon,  soon, 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  31 

to  go  on  with  his  wonderful  tales.  As  he  went  downstairs 
Bella  called  after  him. 

"  But  you  didn't  say  which  car  you  bet  on,  Cousin 
Antony." 

And  Fairfax  called  back  in  his  Southern  drawl :  "  I 
reckon  she'll  come  in  a  pumpkin  chariot."  And  he  heard 
their  delighted  giggles  as  he  limped  downstairs. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  avoided  his  uncle,  Mr.  Carew,  and  made  up  his  mind 
that  if  the  master  of  the  house  were  brusque  to  him,  he 
would  not  return,  were  the  threshold  worn  never  so  dear 
bj  little  feet.  Bella  had  the  loveliest  little  feet  a  fellow 
connoisseur  of  plastic  beauty  could  wish  to  see,  could 
wish  to  watch  twinkle  in  run-down  slippers,  in  scuffled 
boots  —  in  boots  where  a  button  or  two  was  always  lack- 
ing —  and  once  when  she  kicked  off  her  strap  slipper  at  a 
lesson  Fairfax  saw,  through  a  hole  in  the  stocking,  one 
small  perfect  toe  —  a  toe  of  Greek  marble  perfection,  a 
most  charming,  snowy,  rosy  bit  of  flesh,  and  he  imagined 
how  adorable  the  little  foot  must  be. 

To  an  audience,  composed  of  a  dreamy  boy  and  an 
ardent,  enthusiastic  little  girl,  Fairfax  confessed  his 
talent,  spoke  of  his  hopes,  of  his  art,  even  hinted  at 
genius,  and  one  day  fetched  his  treasures,  his  bits  of 
moistened  clay,  to  show  the  children. 

"  Oh,  they  are  perfectly  beautiful,  Cousin  Antony. 
Wouldn't  you  do  Gardiner's  head  for  mother  ?  " 

On  this  day,  with  his  overcoat  and  hat,  Fairfax  had 
laid  by  a  paper  parcel.  It  was  stormy,  and  around  the 
upper  windows  the  snow  blew  and  the  winds  cried. 
Propped  up  by  pillows,  Gardiner,  in  his  red  flannel  dress- 
ing-gown, neitled  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa.  Antony  re- 
garded Bella,  red  as  a  cardinal  bird  in  her  homely  dress; 
he  had  seen  her  wear  no  other  dress  and  would  have  re- 
gretted the  change. 

"  Oh,  I'll  do  Gardiner  one  of  these  days,  but  I  reckon 
I'll  make  another  study  to-day." 

"  Me  ?  "     Bella  shook  back  her  mane. 

Her  cousin  considered  her  with  an  impersonal  eye,  whose 
expression  she  did  not  understand  to  be  the  artist's  gauge 
and  measure. 

32 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  33 

"  Bella,"  he  said  shortly,  "  I'm  going  to  make  a  cast 
of  your  foot." 

She  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  and  drew  her  feet  under  her. 

"  Only  just  my  foot,  Cousin  Antony,  not  all  of  me  ?  " 

"  Come  now,"  said  the  sculptor,  "  it  won't  take  long. 
It's  heaps  of  sport." 

He  unrolled  the  paper  parcel  he  had  brought,  unfolding 
a  mass  of  snowy,  delectable  looking  powder. 

"  Ask  old  Ann  to  fetch  us  a  couple  of  basins,  deep 
ones,  some  water  and  a  little  oil  and  salt." 

When  after  toilsome  journeys  up  and  down  the  stairs 
of  the  four-storied  house,  the  things  had  been  fetched, 
Fairfax  mixed  his  plaster,  eagerly  watched  by  the  children. 
Perched  on  the  edge  of  the  divan,  Bella  brooded  over  the 
foaming,  marvellous  concoction,  into  whose  milky  bubbles 
she  saw  art  fall  like  a  star  —  a  genius  blossom  like  a 
flower.  She  gazed  at  Antony's  hands  as  they  plunged 
in  and  came  out  dripping;  gazed  as  though  she  expected 
him  to  bring  forth  some  peerless  image  his  touch  had 
called  to  life.  His  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up  over  his  fine 
arms,  his  close  high-cropped  and  sunny  hair  warm  upon 
his  brow,  his  eyes  sparkling,  he  bent  an  impassioned  face 
over  the  milky  plaster. 

"  Now,"  Fairfax  said,  "  hurry  along,  Bella,  I'm 
ready ! " 

She  responded  quietly.  "I'm  here.  It's  like  a  snow 
pie,  Cousin  Antony." 

"  Take  off  your  shoe  and  stocking." 

"  Cousin  Antony !  " 

A  painful  flush  of  red,  the  drawing  under  her  more 
closely  of  the  little  legs,  showed  how  far  she  had  been  from 
comprehending. 

"  Casts  are  taken  from  life,  Bella,"  informed  her 
cousin  practically,  "you'll  see.  I'm  going  to  make  a 
model  from  life,  then  watch  what  happens.  I  reckon  you're 
not  afraid,  honey?" 

Gardiner  kicked  his  foot  out  from  under  the  rugs. 
"  Do  mine." 

With  the  first  timidity  Antony  had  seen  her  display, 
Bella  divested  herself  of  her  shoe  and  drew  off  her  dark 
stocking,  and  held  him  out  the  little  naked  foot,  a  charm- 
ing, graceful  concession  to  art. 


34  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  It's  clean,"  she  said  simply. 

He  took  it  in  his  big  hand  and  it  lay  like  a  pearl  and 
coral  thing  in  his  palm.  Bella  did  not  hear  his  murmured 
artistic  ecstasies.  Fairfax  deftly  oiled  the  foot,  kneeling 
before  it  as  at  a  shrine  of  beauty.  He  placed  it  in  one  of 
the  basins  and  poured  the  plaster  slowly  over  it,  sternly 
bidding  her  to  control  her  giggles  and  her  "  ouches  "  as 
it  could  not  harm. 

"  Keep  perfectly  still.  Do  not  budge  till  the  plaster 
sets." 

"  Oh,  it's  setting  already,"  she  told  him,  "  hard ! 
You  won't  break  off  my  foot,  Cousin  Antony  ?  " 

"  Nonsense." 

Whilst  the  cast  set  he  recited  for  them  "  St.  Agnes's 
Eve,"  a  great  favourite  with  the  children,  beyond  their 
comprehension,  but  their  hearts  nevertheless  stirred  to 
the  melody.  As  Fairfax  leant  down  to  break  the  model 
Bella  helped  him  bravely. 

"  Now,  might  I  put  on  my  stocking,  Cousin  Antony  ?  " 

He  had  been  pouring  the  warm  plaster  into  the  mould 
and  had  forgotten  her,  and  was  reproached. 

The  twilight  gathered  and  made  friends  with  the 
storm  as  they  waited  for  the  cast  to  harden.  Old  Ann 
came  in  and  lighted  the  gas  above  the  group  on  the  old 
divan. 

"Be  the  hivenly  powers!  Mr.  Fairfax,  ye've  here 
a  power  of  a  dirt." 

Fairfax,  who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  patient  old 
creature,  who  had  known  his  mother  and  was  really  more 
a  slave  to  the  children  than  his  own  black  Mammy,  bore 
the  scolding  peacefully. 

"  Ye're  the  childest  of  the  three,  sor." 

Antony  caught  her  arm.  "Wait  and  see,  old  Ann," 
and  he  kneeled  before  the  cooled  plaster  and  broke  his 
model,  released  his  work  and  held  up  the  cast. 

"For  the  love  of  hiven,  Mr.  Antony,  it's  Miss  Bella's 
foot  ye've  got,  sor." 

She  stared  as  at  a  miracle,  then  at  her  little  lady  as 
though  she  expected  to  see  a  missing  member.  Bella 
danced  around  it,  pleaded  for  it,  claimed  it.  Gardiner 
was  allowed  to  feel  how  cold  it  was,  and  Fairfax  took 
it  home  in  his  overcoat  pocket,  anxious  to  get  safely  away 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  35 

with  it  before  his  uncle  came  and  smashed  it,  as  he  had 
the  feeling  that  Mr.  Carew  would  some  day  smash  every- 
thing for  him.  That  night  when  she  undressed  Bella 
regarded  with  favour  the  foot  that  had  been  considered 
worthy  of  a  cast  and  extracted  sacredly  a  bit  of  plaster 
which  she  found  between  the  toes,  and  Antony  Fairfax 
limped  home  to  the  House  that  Jack  Built,  his  heavy 
step  lighter  for  the  fairy  foot,  the  snow-white,  perfect 
little  foot  he  carried  triumphantly  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  was  too  sincerely  an  artist  not  to  make  pictures  of 
all  he  saw,  and,  being  sincere,  he  made  his  lines  true,  and 
then  outlined  the  sketch,  softening,  moulding,  moulding. 
.  .  .  His  aunt's  gentle  inefficiency  (she  was  kind  to  him, 
affectionate,  and  called  him  "  her  dear  boy  ")  was  to  Fairfax 
only  charming,  feminine  softness,  and  he  grew  fond  of 
Mrs.  Carew,  indulgent  to  her  faults,  listened  half  convinced 
to  her  arguments,  admired  her  in  her  multitudinous 
toilettes,  in  all  of  which  she  was  original,  found  her  lovely 
and  graceful.  Her  eyes  were  deer-like  —  not  those  of  a 
startled  fawn,  but  like  a  doe's  who  stands  gazing  at  a 
perfect  park,  whose  bosks  she  takes  to  be  real  forests. 
Mrs.  Carew  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  life.  Fairfax 
at  twenty-three,  knew  less  of  it,  and  he  could  not  criticize 
her  vision.  He  saw  his  uncle  through  Bella's  eyes,  but 
he  never  passed  the  master  of  the  house  in  the  halls, 
taking  good  care  to  escape  him.  It  was  not  easy  to 
associate  fear  with  Bella;  her  father  had  not  impressed 
her  free  mind  with  this  sentiment. 

"  Father,"  she  told  Antony,  "  is  the  most  important 
man  in  New  York  City,  the  cook  said  so.  He  might  be 
President,  but  he  doesn't  want  to;  he  likes  hia  own  work 
best.  Father's  work  is  making  money,  and  he  quite 
understands  how  hard  such  a  thing  is.  That  is  why  there 
is  so  little  in  the  house,  Cousin  Antony.  Even  the  cook 
hadn't  a  cent  when  I  asked  her  to  lend  me  a  penny. 
We  used  to  have  five  cents  a  week,  but  now  mother  has 
to  be  so  careful  that  we're  hard  up.  It's  awful  when 
there  are  treats  on,  Cousin  Antony,  because  you  see,  you 
ought  to  do  your  share.  That  is  why  Gardiner  and  I 
always  stick  around  together  and  say  we  don't  like 
children.  .  .  .  No,"  she  said  firmly,  "  I  really  couldn't 

36 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  37 

take  five  cents,  Cousin  Antony;  thank  you  ever  so  much. 
We're  bound  in  honour  not  to;  we  promised  never  to 
take  from  a  stranger;  yes,  I  know  you're  not  a  stranger, 
and  I  forget  to  whom  we  promised,  but  I  really  couldn't, 
Cousin  Antony/' 

Mrs.  Carew  could,  however.  One  day,  on  her  way  to 
the  magic  car,  as  it  waited  with  its  lean  horses  and  jingle- 
jangle  to  take  the  lady  "  sharping,"  that  day  she  borrowed 
two  dollars  from  Fairfax,  who,  being  a  pauper,  had  always 
money  in  his  pocket;  having  in  reality  nowhere  else  to 
keep  it  —  and  having  none  to  keep  elsewhere.  The  two 
dollar  bill  went  to  join  ghostly  company  with  the  drawing 
lessons  money,  and  fluttered  away  to  the  country  of  unpaid 
bille,  of  forgotten  obligations,  of  benefits  forgot,  and  it  is  to 
be  wondered  if  souls  are  ever  at  peace  there. 

"Father,"  said  Bella,  "is  the  'soul  of  honour/ 
When  Ann  comes  to  rub  Gardiner's  feet  at  night  (they 
are  so  often  tired,  Cousin  Antony),  she  told  me  about 
father's  character.  She's  awfully  Irish,  you  wouldn't 
understand  her.  Father  goes  to  'board  meetings'  (I 
don't  know  what  they  are,  but  they're  very  important) 
and  they  call  him  'your  honour,'  and  Ann  says  it's  all 
because  of  his  soul.  He  never  breaks  his  word,  and  when 
the  bills  come  in  .  .  ." 

The  drawing  lessons  went  bravely  and  wearily  on  day 
after  day.  Because  his  aunt  wished  it,  Fairfax  guided 
Gardiner's  inert  fingers  across  the  page  and  almost  tied 
Bella  to  her  chair.  On  drawing  days  he  lunched  with  the 
household,  and  honestly  earned  his  food.  Half  fed,  keen 
with  a  healthy  appetite,  he  ate  gratefully.  They  had  been 
pausing  at  the  end  of  a  half-hour's  torture  when  Bella 
took  up  her  monologue  on  her  father's  character. 

"  When  the  billi  come  in  he  shuts  himself  in  the 
library.  I  hear  him  walk  up  and  down;  then  he  comes 
out  with  his  face  white,  and  once,  long  past  dinner-time, 
when  mother  didn't  come  in,  he  said  to  me,  '  Where  in 
heaven's  name  is  your  mother?  What  can  she  find  left 
in  the  shops  to  buy  ? '  just  that,  he  asked  me  that, 
Cousin  Antony.  I  felt  awfully  sorry.  I  was  just  going 
to  ask  him  for  five  cents,  but  I  hadn't  the  heart." 

That  she  had  heart  for  her  father,  this  child  of  twelve, 
and  at  so  tender  an  age  could  see  and  comprehend,  could 


38  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

pity,  struck  Fairfax,  and  on  his  part  he  began  to  see  many 
things,  but  being  a  man  and  chivalrous,  he  pitied  the 
woman  as  well. 

"  My  aunt  is  out  of  her  element,"  he  decided ;  "  she 
cannot  be  in  love  with  her  husband;  no  woman  who 
loved  anything  on  earth  could  gad  about  as  she  does/' 
and  he  wondered,  and  the  deer  in  the  park  gazing  at  an 
artificial  wilderness  became  more  and  more  of  a  symbol 
of  her. 

Regarding  the  man  they  called  "his  honour"  Fairfax 
had  not  made  up  his  mind. 

Gardiner  developed  scarlet  fever  and  lay,  so  Mrs. 
Carew  assured .  Antony,  "  at  the  door  of  death,"  and 
Bella  had  been  sent  away  to  the  country.  Mr.  Carew 
lived  at  the  Club,  and  Antony  made  daily  visits  and  did 
countless  errands  for  his  aunt.  One  day,  toward  the 
end  of  the  little  boy's  convalescence,  Fairfax  came  in 
late  and  heard  the  sound  of  a  sweet  voice  singing.  He 
entered  the  drawing-room  quietly  and  the  song  went  on. 
Mrs.  Carew  had  a  lovely  voice,  one  of  those  natural  born 
voices,  heart-touching,  appealing;  one  of  those  voices 
that  cause  an  ache  and  go  to  the  very  marrow,  that  make 
the  eyes  fill.  As  though  she  knew  Antony  was  there,  and 
liked  the  entertainment,  she  sang  him  song  after  song, 
closing  with  "  Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cold  blast,"  then  let 
her  hands  rest  on  the  keys.  Fairfax  went  over  to  the 
piano. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  sang  like  this,  Aunt 
Caroline  ?  "  The  emotion  her  songs  had  kindled  remained 
in  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  I  never  sing,  my  dear  boy,  your  uncle  doesn't  like 
music." 

"  Damn,"  said  the  young  man  sharply ;  "  I  beg  your 
pardon.  You've  got  the  family  talent;  your  voice  is 
divine." 

She  was  touched  but  shook  her  head.  "  I  might  have 
sung  possibly,  if  your  uncle  had  ever  cared  for  it.  He'll 
be  back  to-morrow  and  I  thought  I'd  just  run  these  things 
over." 

As  she  rose  and  left  the  piano  he  observed  how  young 
she  was,  how  graceful  in  her  trailing  dress.  The  forced 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  39 

housing  of  these  weeks  of  Gardiner's  illness  had  quieted 
the  restless  spirit.  Mrs.  Carew  was  womanly  to  him, 
feminine  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival.  It  was  at 
the  end  of  his  tongue  to  say,  "  Why  did  you  ever  marry 
that  man  ? "  He  thought  with  keen  dislike  of  the 
husband  whose  appearance  would  close  the  piano,  silence 
the  charming  voice,  and  drive  his  aunt  to  find  occupation 
in  the  shops  and  in  charities.  He  became  too  chivalrous. 

"  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,"  as  sung  by  her,  echoed 
thence  afterwards  in  his  mind  all  his  life.  The  melody 
was  stored  in  the  chambers  of  his  memory,  and  whenever, 
in  later  years,  he  tried  not  to  recall  700  Madison  Avenue, 
and  the  inhospitable  home,  maddeningly  and  plaintively 
these  tunes  would  come :  "  Roll  on,  silver  moon,"  that  too. 
How  that  moon  rolled  and  hung  in  the  pale  sky  of  remem- 
brance, whose  colour  and  hue  is  more  enchanting  than 
ever  were  Italian  skies ! 

Mrs,  Carew  had  an  audience  composed  of  two  people. 
Little  Gardiner,  up  and  dressed  in  his  flannel  gown,  and 
the  big  cousin  fathering  him  with  a  protecting  arm,  both 
in  the  sofa  corner.  Mrs.  Carew's  mellow  voice  on  those 
winter  afternoons  before  Bella  returned,  before  Mr.  Carew 
came  back  from  the  Club,  flowed  and  quavered  and 
echoed  sweetly  through  the  room.  In  the  twilight, 
before  the  gas  came,  with  old-fashioned  stars  set  in  the 
candelabra,  the  touching  pathos  of  the  ballads  spoke  to 
the  romantic  Fairfax  .  .  .  spoke  to  his  twenty-three 
years  and  spoke  dangerously.  He  became  more  and 
more  chivalrous  and  considered  his  aunt  a  misunderstood 
and  unloved  woman.  Long,  long  afterwards,  a  chord,  a 
note,  was  sufficient  to  bring  before  him  the  square  drawing- 
room  with  its  columns,  furnish  with  an  agglomeration  of 
gaudy,  rich,  fantastic  things  expressive  of  her  uncertain 
taste.  He  saw  again  the  long  dark  piano  and  the 
silhouette  of  the  woman  behind  it,  graceful,  shadowy,  and 
felt  the  pressure  against  his  arm  of  little  Gardiner,  as  they 
two  sat  sympathetically  lifted  to  an  emotional  pitch,  stirred 
as  only  the  music  of  a  woman's  voice  in  love-songs  can  stir 
a  man's  heart. 

Bella  came  back  and  there  was  an  end  of  the  concerts. 
A  charm  to  keep  Bella  silent  had  not  yet  been  found, 
unless  that  charm  were  a  book.  "  She  could  not  read 


40  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

when  mother  sang,"  she  said,  "  and  more  than  that,  it 
made  her  cry."  And  when  Mr.  Carew's  latchkey  scratched 
in  the  door,  Bella  flew  upstairs  to  the  top  story,  Antony 
and  Gardiner  followed  more  slowly;  Mrs.  Carew  shut  her 
piano,  and  took  the  cars  again  to  forget  her  restlessness 
in  the  purchase  of  silks  and  dry  goods  and  house  decora- 
tions, and  was  far  from  guessing  the  emotion  she  had 
aroused  in  the  breast  of  her  nephew  — "  Flow  gently, 
sweet  Afton."  Nothing  flowed  gently  in  Fairfax's  im- 
petuous breast.  Nothing  flowed  gently  on  the  tide  of 
events  that  drifted  past  slowly,  leaving  him  unsuccessful, 
without  any  opening  into  fame. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CEDERSHOLM  returned  to  New  York  and  Fairfax  presented 
himself  again  at  the  studio,  getting  as  far  as  the  workroom 
of  the  great  Swede  who  had  started  in  life  the  son  of  a 
tinsmith  in  Copenhagen.  The  smell  of  the  clay,  the  sight 
of  the  figures  swathed  in  damp  cloths,  the  shaded  light, 
struck  Fairfax  deliciously  as  he  waited  for  an  audience  with 
Cedersholm.  Fairfax  drew  his  breath  deep  as  though  he 
were  once  again  in  his  element.  Cedersholm  was  out, 
and  with  no  other  encouragement  than  the  sight  of  the 
interior  of  the  four  walls,  Antony  was  turned  away. 
His  mother  had  added  to  his  fast  melting  funds  by  a 
birthday  gift,  and  Fairfax  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  this. 

Walking  up  from  Cedersholm's  to  his  uncle's  house,  a 
tramp  of  three  miles,  he  limped  into  the  children's  room, 
on  his  usually  bright  face  the  first  shadow  they  had  seen. 
Bella  was  already  seated  at  her  table.  Her  six  weeks 
in  the  country  had  sent  her  back,  longer,  slimmer,  her 
skirt  let  down  at  the  hem  an  inch,  and  some  pretence  to 
order  in  her  hair.  The  dark  mass  of  her  hair  was  lifted 
back,  held  by  a  round  comb ;  Bella  was  much  transformed. 

"  Hello,  honey/'  cried  her  cousin,  "  what  have  you 
been  changing  into  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  back  comb,  Cousin  Antony  ? 
It's  the  fourth.  I've  broken  three.  All  cheap,  luckily, 
not  the  best  quality ." 

Bella  took  the  comb  from  her  hair  and  handed  it  to 
Antony,  and,  unprisoned,  her  locks  fell  triumphantly 
around  her  face. 

"  I  like  you  better  that  way,  little  cousin,"  said  Fair- 
fax, "  and,"  continued  the  drawing  master,  "  you've  a  won- 
derful new  pair  of  shoes,  Bella !  " 

The  little  leg  was  encased  in  a  light  blue  silk  stocking, 

41 


42  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

and  the  perfect  little  foot,  whose  rosy  curves  and  lines 
Fairfax  knew,  was  housed  in  a  new  blue  kid  shoe  with 
shining  white  buttons,  entirely  out  of  keeping  with  the 
dear  old  red  dress  which,  to  Fairfax,  seemed  part  of 
Bella  Carew. 

"Dancing  school/'  she  said  briefly;  "mother  promised 
us  we  might  go  ages  ago,  long  before  you  came,  Cousin 
Antony." 

"  About  ten  years  ago,  I  fink,"  said  Gardiner  helpfully. 

"  Nonsense,"  corrected  his  sister  sharply,  "  but  long 
enough  ago  for  these  to  grow  too  small."  She  held  up 
her  pretty  foot.  "  We  got  as  far  as  the  shoes  and  stockings 
(real  silk,  Cousin  Antony,  feel).  Aren't  they  perfectly 
beautiful?  We  didn't  dare,  because  of  the  bills,  get 
the  dress,  you  know,  so  I  guess  mother's  been  waiting 
for  better  times.  But  just  as  soon  as  I  came  back  from 
the  country  and  they  let  out  the  hem  and  bought  the 
comb,  I  said  to  Gardiner,  '  There,  my  dancing  shoes  will 
be  too  small.' ''  She  leant  down  and  pinched  the  toes. 
"  They  do  squeeze."  She  crinkled  up  her  eyes  and 
pursed  up  the  little  red  mouth.  "  They  pinch  awfully, 
but  I'm  going  to  wear  them  to  drawing  lessons,  if  I  can't 
to  dancing  lessons.  See,"  she  smoothed  out  her  drawing 
board  and  pointed  to  her  queer  lines,  "  I  have  drawn  some 
old  things  for  you,  a  couple  of  squares  and  a  triangle." 

Faixfax  listened,  amused;  the  problems  of  his  life  were 
vital,  she  could  not  distract  him.  He  took  the  rubber, 
erasing  her  careless  work,  sat  down  by  her  and  began  to 
give  her  real  instruction.  Little  Gardiner,  excused  from 
all  study,  amused  himself  after  his  own  fashion  in  a  corner 
of  the  sofa,  and  after  a  few  moments  of  silence,  Fairfax's 
pupil  whispered  to  him  in  a  low  tone  — 

"  I  can't  draw  anything,  Cousin  Antony,  when  you've 
got  that  look  on." 

Fairfax  continued  his  work. 

"It's  no  use,  you've  got  the  heavy  look  like  the  heavy 
step.  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  " 

Not  her  words,  but  her  voice  made  her  cousin  stop 
his  drawing.  In  it  was  a  hint  of  the  tears  she  hated  to 
shed.  Bella  leant  her  elbow  on  the  table,  rested  her  head 
in  her  hand  and  searched  Fairfax's  face  with  her  eloquent 
eyes.  They  were  not  like  her  mother's,  doe-like  and 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  43 

patient;  Bella's  were  dark  eyes,  superb  and  shadowy. 
They  held  something  of  the  Spanish  mystery,  caught 
from  the  strain  that  ran  through  the  Carew  family  from 
the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  Carez  were  nobles  in 
Andalusia. 

"  I  am  angry  with  myself,  Bella ;  I  am  a  fool." 

"  Oh  no,  you're  not"  she  breathed  devotedly,  "  you're 
a  genius." 

The  tension  of  Fairfax's  heart  relaxed.  The  highest 
praise  that  any  woman  could  have  found,  this  child,  in 
her  naivete,  gave  him. 

"  Why  don't  you  make  some  figures  and  sell  them, 
Cousin  Antony  ?  Are  you  worried  about  money  troubles  ?  " 
She  had  heard  these  terms  often. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  shortly,  "  just  that." 

He  had  gone  on  to  sketch  a  head  on  the  drawing- 
board,  touching  it  absently,  and  over  his  shoulder  Bella 
murmured  — 

"  Cousin  Antony,  it's  just  like  me.  You  just  draw 
wonderfully." 

He  deepened  the  shadows  in  the  hair  and  rounded  the 
ear,  held  it  some  way  off  and  looked  at  it. 

"  I  wish  I  had  some  clay,"  he  murmured. 

He  had  brought  the  cast  of  the  foot  back  to  show  it 
to  his  aunt  when  an  occasion  should  offer.  It  stood  now 
in  the  little  cabinet  where  Bella  and  Gardiner  kept  their 
treasures. 

"  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Cedersholm  to-day,"  Fairfax 
continued,  for  lack  of  other  confidant  taking  the  dark- 
eyed  child;  "now,  if  Cedersholm  would  only  take  me  up, 
and  give  me  the  chance  to  work  under  him,  I'd  soon 
show  him." 

Bella  agreed  warmly.     "  Yes,  indeed,  you  soon  would." 


CHAPTEE  XII 

THE  odours  of  strange  meats  and  sauces  were  wafted 
throughout  the  house.  Little  troublesome  feet  pattered 
up  and  down  the  dingy  back  stairs,  and  whenever  Bella 
and  Gardiner  were  laid  hold  upon  they  were  banished. 
They  were  inoculated  with  excitement  and  their  nostrils 
pricked  with  the  delicious  smells  of  flowers  and  smilax 
and  feast  meats. 

Mr.  Carew  annually  gave  a  banquet  to  some  twenty 
New  Yorkers,  who  he  was  so  generous  as  to  think  were 
nearly  as  great  as  himself.  The  household  was  not  con- 
structed or  run  on  a  hospitable  basis  and  nothing  was  in 
tune  for  entertaining.  Sympathetic  Bella,  thrilling  with 
liveliest  interest,  assisted  at  the  preparations,  and  to 
her  bright  cheeks  and  eyes  her  mother  bewailed  — 

"  Only  twenty  glasses,  Bella,  of  the  fine  engraved  deer 
and  pheasant  pattern,  and  we  shall  be  twenty-four." 

"  Mother,  give  me  one  in  a  paper  and  I'll  take  it  down 
town  and  match  it." 

Her  mother  laughed.  "  Match  it,  why  they  were 
made  by  hand  years  ago,  and  are  worth  ten  dollars 
apiece/' 

"  Oh,  dear,"  breathed  the  little  girl,  and  multiplied : 
"Two  hundred  dollars  for  twenty.  Mother!" 

The  child  stole  silently  out  from  the  glistening  array. 
Ten  dollars  apiece.  And  she  and  Gardiner  at  their  last 
nursery  tea-party  .  .  .  Through  the  door,  as  she  slipped 
away,  she  looked  back  at  her  mother,  standing  thoughtful 
over  the  rows  of  crystal.  In  the  great  mahogany  cage 
which,  like  a  small  dark  chateau,  surmounted  the  pedestal 
of  carved  wood,  the  blackbird  Jetty  huddled  on  his  perch. 
He  was  a  superb  specimen,  black  as  jet,  whence  his  name, 
a  free  woodland  spirit,  with  a  yellow  bill  like  a  crocus 

44 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  45 

flower,  and  piercing  eyes.     Bella  passed  under  the  cage 
and  called  up  to  him,  "  Sing,  Jetty,  sing." 

Piped  a  blackbird  from  a  beechwood  spray, 
"  Little  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 
What's  your  name?"  said  he. 

Little  Bell  had  wandered  through  the  glade, 
She  looked  up  between  the  beechwood's  shade, 
"  Little  Bell,"  said  she.  .  .  . 

The  child  crooned  to  the  bird  her  schoolroom  poem. 
In  return,  Jetty  sang  a  short,  brilliant  little  roulade,  his 
one  drained  tune,  which  Bella  had  vainly  tried  to  pick 
out  on  the  piano.  She  never  heard  half  so  sweet  a  song 
from  any  bird. 

"  Jetty  is  my  favourite  singer,"  she  had  said  to 
Antony.  But  as  she  lingered  now  under  his  cage  in  order 
to  lengthen  out  the  time,  which,  because  of  her  aching 
conscience,  was  hanging  heavy,  Jetty  blinked  down  at 
her  as  she  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her  back,  her  face 
uplifted;  he  peered  at  her  like  a  weird  familiar  spirit. 
"  Listen,  Jetty.  Gardiner  and  I  took  those  perfectly 
beautiful,  expensive  glasses  for  our  tea  party.  He 
smashed  all  three  of  them.  There  was  a  glass  for  Gardiner, 
a  glass  for  me  and  one  for  the  uninvited  guest  —  no,  I  mean 
the  unexpected  guest.  Gardiner  sat  down  on  the  glasses 
where  I  had  put  them  out  to  wash  them.  He  would  have 
been  awfully  cut  only  he  had  father's  overcoat  on  (one 
of  father's  old  coats,  we  got  it  out  of  the  camphor  chest)." 
She  ceased,  for  Jetty,  in  the  midst  of  the  confession, 
hopped  down  to  take  a  valetudinarian  peck  at  his  yellow 
seeds. 

"  Now,"  murmured  Bella,  "  the  question  is,  shall  I 
tell  mother  on  an  exciting  day  like  this  when  she  is 
worried  and  nervous,  and,  if  I  do  tell  her,  wouldn't  it 
be  carrying  tales  on  poor  little  Gardiner  ?  " 

Jetty,  by  his  food  cup,  disheartened  and  discouraged 
and  apparently  in  a  profound  melancholy,  depressed  Bella ; 
she  left  him,  turned  and  fled. 

Bella  picked  a  forbidden  way  up  the  freshly  oiled 
stairs  and  joined  her  little  brother.  There  she  listened 
to  tales,  danced  on  tiptoe  to  peer  through  the  stair  rails, 
and  hung  with  Gardiner  over  the  balustrade  and  watched 


46  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

and  listened.  The  children  flew  to  the  window  to  see  the 
cabs  and  carriages  drive  up,  fascinated  by  the  clicking 
of  the  doors,  finding  magic  in  the  awning  and  the  carpet- 
ing that  stretched  down  the  stoop  to  the  curb;  found 
music  in  the  voices  below  in  the  hallway  as  the  guests 
arrived.  Bella  could  hardly  eat  the  flat  and  unpalatable 
supper  prepared  for  her  on  the  tray,  and,  finally,  she 
seized  her  little  brother. 

"  Come,  let's  go  down  and  see  the  party,  Gardiner." 

She  dragged  him  after  her,  half-reluctant  and  wholly 
timid.  On  the  middle  of  the  stairway  she  paused.  The 
house  below  was  transformed,  hot  and  perfumed  with 
flowers,  the  very  atmosphere  was  strange.  Along  the 
balustrade,  their  hands  touched  smilax  garlands.  The 
blaze  of  light  dazzled  them,  the  sweet  odours,  the  gaiety 
and  the  spirit  of  cheer  and  life  and  good-fellowship  came 
up  on  fragrant  wings.  The  little  brother  and  sister  stood 
entranced.  The  sound  of  laughter  and  men's  agreeable 
voices  came  soaring  in,  the  gaiety  of  guests  at  a  feast,  and, 
over  all  rose  a  sound  most  heavenly,  a  low,  thrilling, 
thrilling  sound. 

Jetty  was  singing. 

The  children  knew  the  blackbird's  idyl  well,  but  it 
was  different  this  night.  They  heard  the  first  notes  rise 
softly,  half  stifled  in  his  throat,  where  Jetty  caressed  his 
tune,  soothed  it,  crooned  with  it,  and  then,  preluded  by  a 
burst  all  his  own  of  a  few  adorable  silver  notes,  the  trained 
melody  came  forth. 

"  Oh,  Gardiner,"  breathed  the  little  girl,  "  hear  Jetty. 
Isn't  it  perfectly  beautiful  ?  " 

They  stepped  softly  on  downstairs,  hand  in  hand,  into 
the  lower  rooms,  over  to  the  dining-room  where  the  thick 
red  curtains  hung  before  the  doorway.  Gardiner  wore 
his  play  apron  and  his  worsted  bed  slippers.  Bella  — 
neither  the  little  brother  nor  the  old  nurse  had  observed 
that  Bella  had  made  herself  a  toilette.  The  dark  hair 
carefully  brushed  and  combed,  was  tied  back  with  a 
crimson  ribbon,  and  below  her  short  dress  shone  out  her 
dancing  school  blue  stockings  and  her  tight  blue  shoes. 
Peering  through  the  curtains,  the  children  could  see  the 
dinner  company  to  their  hearts'  content.  Bella  viewed 
the  great  New  Yorkers,  murmuring  under  her  breath  the 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  47 

names  and  wondering  to  whom  they  belonged.  Judge 
Noah  Davis,  famous  for  the  breaking  of  the  Tweed  ring  — 
him,  Bella  knew,  he  was  a  frequent  caller.  There  was  a 
prelate  of  the  Church  and  there  was  some  one  whom 
Bella  wanted  especially  to  see  —  Cedersholm,  Mr.  Ceders- 
holm  —  which  could  he  be?  Which  might  he  be?  Little 
Gardiner's  hand  was  hot  in  hers.  He  whispered  beseech- 
ingly — 

"  Come,  Bella,  come,  I'm  afwaid." 

"  Hear  Jetty,  Gardiner,  be  quiet." 

And  the  bird's  voice  nearly  drowned  the  murmur  and 
the  clamour  of  the  dining-room.  Mr.  Carew,  resplendent 
in  evening  clothes,  displayed  upon  his  shirt  front  the 
badge  of  the  Spanish  Society  (a  golden  medal  hung  by 
a  silken  band).  It  was  formed  and  founded  by  the  banker 
and  he  was  proud  of  his  creation. 

"Who  would  ever  suppose  that  father  didn't  like 
company  ?  Whoever  would  think  that  you  could  be  afraid 
of  father ! " 

Suave,  eloquent,  Carew  beamed  upon  his  guests,  and 
his  little  daughter  admired  him  extravagantly.  His  hair 
and  beard  were  beautiful.  Touching  the  medal  on  his 
breast,  Carew  said  — 

"  Carez  is  the  old  name,  Cedersholm/' 

Cedersholm !     Bella  stared  and  listened. 

"  Yes,  Carez,  Andalusian,  I  believe,  to  be  turned  later 
in  England  into  Carew;  and  the  has  relief  is  an  excellent 
bit  of  sculpturing." 

Mr.  Carew  undid  the  medal  and  handed  it  to  the  guest 
on  his  right. 

"  Here,  Cedersholm,  what  do  you  think  of  the  bas 
relief?" 

Cedersholm,  already  famous  in  New  York,  faced 
Bella  Carew  and  she  saw  him  plainly.  This  was  the 
sculptor  who  could  give  Cousin  Antony  his  start,  "his 
fair  chance."  He  did  not  look  a  great  man,  as  Bella 
thought  geniuses  should  look;  not  one  of  the  guests 
looked  as  great  and  beautiful  as  Cousin  Antony.  Why 
didn't  they  have  him  to  the  dinner,  she  wondered  loyally. 
Hasn't  he  got  money  enough?  Perhaps  because  he  was 
lame. 

Jetty  was  lame.     He  had  broken  his  leg  in  the  bars 


48  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

once  upon  a  time.  How  he  sang!  From  his  throat 
poured  one  ecstatic  roulade  after  another,  one  cascade 
after  another  of  liquid  delicious  sweetness.  Fields, 
woods,  copses,  and  dells;  sunlight,  moonlight,  seas  and 
streams,  all,  all  were  in  Jetty's  passion  of  song. 

Gardiner  had  left  his  sister's  side  and  stood  under  the 
bird-cage  gazing  up  with  an  enraptured  face.  He  made  a 
pretty,  quaint  figure  in  the  deserted  room,  in  his  gingham 
apron  and  his  untidy  blonde  hair. 

Bella  heard  some  one  say,  "What  wonderful  singing, 
Mrs.  Carew."  And  she  looked  at  her  mother  for  the 
first  time.  The  lady  was  all  in  white  with  a  bit  of  old 
black  point  crossed  at  her  breast  and  a  red  camellia 
fastened  there.  Her  soft  fine  hair  was  unpretentiously 
drawn  away  neatly,  and  her  doe-like  eyes  rested  amiably 
on  her  guests.  She  seemed  to  enjoy  her  unwonted 
entertainment. 

Still  Bella  clung  to  her  hiding-place,  fascinated  by  the 
subdued  noise  of  the  service,  the  clinking  of  the  glasses, 
listening  intelligently  to  a  clever  raconteur  when  he  told 
his  anecdote,  and  clapping  her  hand  on  her  mouth  to 
keep  from  joining  aloud  in  the  praise  that  followed,  and 
the  bead  of  excitement  mounted  to  her  head  like  the 
wine  that  filled  the  glasses,  the  engraved  deer  and  pheasant 
glasses,  three  of  which  had  been  massacred  upstairs.  The 
dinner  had  nearly  reached  its  end  when  the  children 
slipped  down,  and  the  scraping  of  chairs  and  a  lull  made 
Bella  realize  where  she  was,  and  when  she  escaped  she 
found  that  Gardiner  had  made  his  little  journey  upstairs 
without  her  guardianship.  Bella's  mind  was  working 
rapidly,  for  her  heart  was  on  fire  with  a  scheme.  In  her 
bright  dress  she  leaned  close  to  the  dark  wainscoting  of 
the  stairway  and  heard  Jetty  sing.  How  he  sang !  That 
was  music ! 

"  Why  do  people  sing  when  there  are  birds !  "  Bella 
thought.  Low  and  sweet,  high  and  fine,  the  running  of 
little  country  brooks,  unattainable  as  a  weather  vane  in 
the  sun. 

Bella  was  at  a  pitch  of  sensitive  emotion  and  she  felt 
her  heart  swell  and  her  eyes  fill.  She  would  have  wept 
ignominiously,  but  instead  shot  upstairs,  a  red  bird 
herself,  and  rushed  to  the  cabinet  where  her  childish 
treasures  were  stored  away. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  sculptor  Cedersholm  had  come  from  Sweden  himself 
a  poor  boy.  He  had  worked  his  way  into  recognition  and 
fame,  but  his  experience  in  life  had  embittered  rather  than 
softened  him.  He  early  discovered  that  there  is  nothing 
but  example  that  we  can  learn  from  the  poor  or  take  from 
the  poor,  and  he  avoided  everything  that  did  not  add  to 
his  fame  and  everything  that  did  not  bring  in  immediate 
aids.  It  was  only  during  the  late  years  that  he  had  made 
his  name  known  in  New  York.  He  had  been  working  in 
Rome,  and  during  the  past  three  years  his  expositions 
had  made  him  enormously  talked  of.  He  would  not  have 
dined  at  the  Carews'  without  a  reason.  Henry  Carew 
was  something  of  a  figure  in  the  Century  Club.  His 
pretence  to  dilettantism  was  not  small.  But  Cedersholm 
had  not  foreseen  what  a  wretched  dinner  he  would  be 
called  on  to  eat.  Cooked  by  a  woman  hired  in  for  the 
day,  half  cold  and  wholly  poor,  Mr.  Carew's  banquet  was 
far  from  being  the  magnificent  feast  it  seemed  in  Bella's 
eyes.  Somewhat  cheered  by  his  cigar  and  liqueur, 
Cedersholm  found  a  seat  in  a  small  reception  room  out  of 
earshot  of  his  host  and  hostess,  and,  in  company  with 
Canon  Prynne  of  Albany,  managed  to  pass  an  agreeable 
half  hour. 

The  Canon  agreed  with  the  Swede  —  he  had  never  heard 
a  bird  sing  so  divinely. 

"  I  told  Mrs.  Carew  she  should  throw  a  scarf  over  the 
cage.  The  blackbird  will  sing  his  heart  out." 

The  sculptor  took  up  his  conversation  with  his  friend 
where  he  had  left  it  in  the  dining-room.  He  had  been 
speaking  of  a  recent  commission  given  him  by  the  city 
for  an  important  piece  of  work  to  be  done  for  Central 
Park. 

49 


50  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"You  know,  Canon,  we  have  succeeded  in  bringing 
to  the  port  of  New  York  the  Abydos  Sphinx  —  a  mar- 
vellous, gigantic  creature.  It  is  to  be  placed  in  Central 
Park,  in  the  Mall." 

This,  Canon  Prynne  had  heard.  "  The  base  pedestal 
and  fixtures  are  to  be  yours,  Cedersholm  ?  " 

The  sculptor  nodded.  "  Yes,  and  manual  labour  such 
as  this  is  tremendous.  If  I  were  in  France,  now,  or  in 
Italy,  I  could  find  chaps  to  help  me.  As  it  is,  I  work 
alone."  After  a  pause,  he  said,  "  However,  I  like  the 
sole  responsibility." 

"  Now,  I  am  not  sure,"  returned  his  companion, 
"  whether  it  is  well  to  like  too  sole  a  responsibility.  As 
far  as  7  am  concerned,  no  sooner  do  I  think  myself  im- 
portant than  I  discover  half  a  dozen  persons  in  my  en- 
vironment to  whom  I  am  doing  a  wrong,  if  I  do  not  invite 
them  to  share  my  glory." 

There  was  no  one  in  the  small  room  to  which  the 
gentlemen  had  withdrawn,  and  their  chat  was  suddenly 
interrupted  by  a  small,  clear  voice  asking,  "  Is  this  Mr. 
Cedersholm  ? "  Neither  guest  had  seen  steal  into  the 
room  and  slip  from  the  shadow  to  where  they  sat,  a  little 
girl,  slender,  overgrown,  in  a  ridiculously  short  dress, 
ridiculous  shoes  and  stockings,  her  arms  full  of  treasures, 
her  dark  hair  falling  around  her  glowing  cheeks,  in  terror 
of  being  caught  and  banished  and  punished;  but  ardent 
and  determined,  she  had  nevertheless  braved  her  father's 
displeasure.  Bella  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  sculptor  and  said 
rapidly  — 

"  Excuse  me  for  coming  to  father's  party,  but  I  am  in 
a  great  hurry.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  my  Cousin 
Antony.  He  is  a  great  genius,"  she  informed  earnestly, 
"a  sculptor,  just  like  you,  only  he  can't  get  any  work. 
If  he  had  a  chance  he'd  make  perfectly  beautiful  things." 

The  other  gentleman  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  the 
child  to  him.  Unused  to  fatherly  caress,  Bella  held  back, 
but  was  soon  drawn  within  the  Canon's  arm.  She  held 
out  her  treasures :  "  He  did  these,"  and  she  presented  to 
Cedersholm  the  white  cast  of  her  own  foot. 

"  Cousin  Antony  explained  that  it  is  only  a  cast,  and 
that  anybody  could  do  it,  but  it  is  awfully  natural,  isn't 
it  ?  only  so  deadly  white." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  51 

She  held  out  a  sheet  of  paper  Fairfax  had  left  at  the 
last  lesson.  It  bore  a  sketch  of  Bella's  head  and  several 
decorative  studies.  Cedersholm  regarded  the  cast  and  the 
paper. 

"  Who  is  Cousin  Antony,  my  child  ?  "  asked  the  Canon. 

"  Mother's  sister's  son,  from  New  Orleans  —  Antony 
Fairfax." 

Cedersholm  exclaimed,  "  Fairfax ;  but  yes,  I  have  a 
letter  from  a  Mr.  Fairfax.  It  came  while  I  was  in  France." 

The  drawing  and  the  cast  in  Cedersholm's  possession 
seemod^to  have  found  their  home.  Bella  felt  all  was  well 
for  Cousin  Antony. 

"  Oh,  listen !  "  she  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "  listen  to  our 
blackbird.  Isn't  it  perfectly  beautiful?" 

"  Divine  indeed,"  replied  the  clergyman.  "  Are  you 
Carew's  little  daughter  ?  " 

"Bella  Carew.  And  I  must  go  now,  sir.  Arabella  is 
my  real  name." 

She  slipped  from  under  the  detaining  arm.  "Nobody 
knows  I'm  up.  I'll  lend  you  those,"  she  offered  her 
treasures  to  Cedersholm,  "  but  I  am  very  fond  of  the  foot." 

It  lay  in  Cedersholm's  hand  without  filling  it.  He  said 
kindly  — 

"  I  quite  understand  that.  Will  you  tell  your  Cousin 
Antony  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  nodded.  "  And  he'll  be  very 
glad  to  see  you." 

Cedersholm,  smiling,  put  the  cast  and  the  bit  of  paper 
back  in  her  hands. 

"  I  won't  rob  you  of  these,  Miss  Bella.  Your  cousin, 
shall  make  me  others." 

As  the  little  girl  ran  quickly  out  it  seemed  to  the  guests 
as  if  the  blackbird's  song  went  with  her,  for  in  a  little  while 
Jetty  stopped  singing. 

"  What  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  little  creature,"  Ceders- 
holm mused. 

"  Charming,"  murmured  Canon  Prynne,  "  perfectly 
charming.  Now,  my  dear  Cedersholm,  there's  your  fellow 
for  the  Central  Park  pedestal." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  month  was  nearly  at  its  end,  and  his  money  with  it. 
Some  time  since,  he  had  given  up  riding  in  the  cars,  and 
walked  everywhere.  This  exercise  was  the  one  thing  that 
tired  him,  because  of  his  unequal  stride.  Nevertheless, 
he  strode,  and  though  it  seemed  impossible  that  a  chap 
like  himself  could  come  to  want,  he  finally  reached  his 
last  "picayune,"  and  at  the  same  time  owed  the  week's 
board  and  washing.  The  excitement  of  his  new  life  thus 
far  had  stimulated  him,  but  the  time  came  when  this 
stimulus  was  dead,  and  as  he  went  up  the  steps  of  his 
uncle's  house  to  be  greeted  on  the  stoop  by  a  beggar 
woman,  huddling  by  her  basket  under  her  old  shawl,  the 
sculptor  looked  sadly  down  at  her  greasy  palm  which  she 
hopefully  extended.  Then,  with  a  brilliant  smile,  he 
exclaimed  — 

"  I  wonder,  old  lady,  just  how  poor  you  are  ?  " 

"Wurra,"  replied  the  woman,  "if  the  wurrld  was  for 
sale  for  a  cint,  I  couldn't  buy  it." 

Beneath  his  breath  he  murmured,  "  Nor  could  I,"  and 
thought  of  his  watch.  Curiously  enough,  it  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  might  pawn  his  father's  watch. 

He  now  looked  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  tri- 
weekly drawing  lessons,  for  the  friendly  fires  of  his  little 
cousins'  hearts  warmed  his  own.  But  on  this  afternoon 
they  failed  to  meet  him  in  the  hall  or  to  cry  to  him  over 
the  stairs  or  rush  upon  him  like  catapults  from  unexpected 
corners.  As  he  went  through  the  silent  house  its  unusual 
quiet  struck  him  forcibly,  and  he  thought :  "  What  a 
tomb  it  would  be  without  the  children ! " 

No  one  responded  to  his  "  Hello  you/'  and  at  the 
entrance  of  the  common  play  and  study  room  Fairfax 
paused,  to  see  Bella  and  Gardiner  in  their  play  aprons, 

52 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PKIDE  53 

their  backs  to  the  door,  motionless  before  the  table,  one 
dark  head  and  one  light  one  bent  over  an  object  appar- 
ently demanding  tender,  reverent  care. 

At  Fairfax's  "  Hello  you  all !  "  they  turned,  and  the 
big  cousin  never  forgot  it  as  long  as  he  lived  —  never 
forgot  the  Bella  that  turned,  that  called  out  in  what  the 
French  call  "  a  torn  voice  " —  une  voix  dechiree.  After- 
wards it  struck  him  that  she  called  him  "  Antony  "  tout 
court,  like  a  grown  person  as  she  rushed  to  him.  He  never 
forgot  how  the  little  thing  flung  herself  at  him,  threw 
herself  against  his  breast.  For  an  answer  to  her  appeal 
with  a  quick  comprehension  of  grief,  Antony  bent  nnd 
took  her  hand. 

"  Cousin  Antony,  Cousin  Antony  • " 

"Why,  Bella,  Bella,  little  cousin,  what'i  the 
matter?" 

And  above  the  sobs  that  he  felt  tremble  through  him, 
he  asked  of  Gardiner  —  who,  young  as  he  was,  stifled  his 
tears  back  and  gulped  his  own  grief  like  a  man  — 

"  What's  the  row,  old  chap  ?  " 

But  Bella  told  him  passionately.  "Jetty,  Jetty's 
dead ! " 

Soothed  by  her  cousin's  hand  on  her  head,  she  calmed, 
buried  her  face  in  the  cool  handkerchief  with  which  he 
wiped  her  tears.  In  the  circle  of  his  arms  Bella  stood, 
tearful,  sobbing,  nothing  but  a  child,  and  yet  she  appealed 
to  Fairfax  in  her  tears  as  she  had  not  done  before,  and  her 
abandon  went  to  the  core  of  his  being  and  smote  a  bell 
which  from  thenceforth  rang  like  her  name  — "  Bella  " — 
and  he  used  to  think  that  it  was  from  that  moment  .  .  . 
Well,  her  tears  at  any  rate  stirred  him  as  never  did  any 
tears  in  the  world. 

She  wiped  her  eyes.  "Jetty  died  last  night;  he  sang 
himself  to  death.  You  should  have  heard  him  sing! 
This  morning  when  they  came  to  give  him  water  and  feed 
him,  Jetty  was  dead." 

Gardiner  pointed  to  the  table.  "  See,  we've  made  him 
a  coffin.  We're  going  to  his  funewal  now." 

A  discarded  cigar  box  lined  with  cotton  was  the  only 
coffin  the  children  had  found  for  the  wild  wood  creature 
whose  life  had  gone  out  in  song. 

"  We  don't  know  where  to  buwy  him,  Cousin  Antony." 


54  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  I  tried/'  Bella  murmured,  touching  the  blackbird's 
breast  with  gentle  fingers,  "  I  tried  to  write  him  a  poem, 
an  epitaph ;  but  I  cried  so  I  couldn't." 

She  held  Antony's  handkerchief  to  her  tear-stained 
cheek. 

"  May  I  keep  your  handkerchief  for  just  this  after- 
noon? It  smells  so  delicious.  You  could  make  a  cast 
of  him,  couldn't  you  ?  —  like  the  death-mask  of  great  men 
in  father's  books  ?  " 

Fairfax  dissuaded  them  from  the  funeral,  at  which 
Gardiner  was  to  say,  "  Now  I  lay  me,"  and  Fairfax  had 
been  elected  to  read  the  Lord's  Prayer.  He  rolled  the 
bird  up  in  another  handkerchief  (he  appeared  to  be  rich 
in  them)  and  put  it  reverently  in  his  overcoat  pocket, 
promising  faithfully  to  see  that  Jetty  should  be  buried 
in  Miss  Whitcomb's  back  yard,  under  the  snow,  and,  more- 
over, to  mark  the  place  with  a  stick,  so  that  the  children 
could  find  it  when  spring  came. 

Then  Bella,  tear-stained  but  resigned,  suggested  that 
they  should  play  "  going  to  Siberia." 

"  I  can't  work  to-day,  Cousin  Antony !  Don't  make  me. 
It  would  seem  like  sewing  on  Sunday." 

Without  comment,  Fairfax  accepted  the  feminine 
inconsistency,  and  himself  entered,  with  what  spirit  he 
might,  into  the  children's  game.  "  Going  to  Siberia " 
laid  siege  to  all  the  rooms  in  the  upper  story.  It  was  a 
mad  rush  on  Fairfax's  part,  little  Gardiner  held  in  his 
arms,  pursued  by  Bella  as  a  wolf.  It  was  a  tear  over 
beds  and  chairs,  around  tables, —  a  wild,  screaming, 
excited  journey,  ending  at  last  in  the  farthest  room  in 
the  middle  of  the  children's  bed,  where,  one  after  another, 
they  were  thrown  by  the  big  cousin.  The  game  was 
enriched  by  Fairfax's  description  of  Russia  and  the 
steppes  and  the  plains.  But  on  this  day  Bella  insisted 
that  Gardiner,  draped  in  a  hearthrug,  be  the  wolf,  and 
that  Fairfax  carry  her  "because  her  heart  ached."  And 
if  Gardiner's  growls  and  baying  failed  to  give  the  usual 
zest  to  the  sport,  the  carrying  by  Fairfax  of  Bella  was  a 
new  emotion !  The  twining  round  his  neck  of  soft  arms, 
the  confusion  of  dark  hair  against  his  face,  the  flower-like 
breath  on  his  cheeks,  Bella's  excitement  of  sighs  and  cries 
and  giggles  gave  the  game,  for  one  player  at  least,  fresh 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  55 

charm.  Chased  by  Ann  back  into  the  studio,  the  play- 
mates fell  on  the  sofa,  worn  out  and  happy;  but,  in  the 
momentary  calm,  a  little  cousin  on  either  side  of  him,  the 
poor  young  man  felt  the  cruel  return  of  his  own  miseries 
and  his  own  crisis. 

"  Misther  Fairfax/'  said  the  Irish  woman,  "  did  the 
childhren  give  ye  the  letter  what  come  to-day?  I  thawt 
Miss  Bella'd  not  mind  it,  what  wid  funnerals  and  tearin' 
like  a  mad  thing  over  the  house!"  (Ann's  reproof  was 
for  Fairfax.)  "  Yez'll  be  the  using  up  of  little  Gardiner, 
sir,  tKe*  both  of  ye.  The  letther's  forbye  the  clock.  I 
putt  it  there  m'self." 

Fairfax,  to  whom  no  news  could  be  but  welcome, 
limped  over  to  the  mantel,  where,  by  the  clock,  he  per- 
ceived a  letter  addressed  to  him  on  big  paper  in  a  small, 
distinguished  hand.  He  tore  it  open,  Ann  lit  the  gas,  and 
he  read  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  FAIRFAX, 

"  I  have  not  answered  your  letter  because  I 
was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  lost  your  address.  Learn- 
ing last  night  that  you  are  a  nephew  of  Mr.  Carew,  and 
sure  of  a  response  if  I  send  this  to  his  care,  I  write  to  ask 
that  you  will  come  in  to  see  me  to-day  at  three  o'clock. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 
"  GUNNER  CEDERSHOLM." 

Fairfax  gave  an  exclamation  that  was  almost  a  cry, 
and  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  past  four ! 

"  When  did  this  letter  come  ? "  His  nerves  were  on 
end,  his  cheeks  pale. 

Bella  sat  forward  on  the  sofa.  "Why,  Mother  gave 
it  me  to  give  to  you  when  you  should  come  to-day,  Cousin 
Antony." 

In  the  strain  to  his  patience,  Fairfax  was  sharp.  He 
bit  his  lip,  snatched  up  his  coat  and  hat. 

"  You  should  have  given  it  me  at  once."  His  blue  eyes 
flashed.  "  You  don't  know  what  you  may  have  done. 
This  may  ruin  my  career !  I've  missed  my  appointment 
with  Cedersholm.  It's  too  late  now." 

He  couldn't  trust  himself  further,  and,  before  Bella 
could  regain  countenance,  he  was  gone. 


56  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Cut  to  the  heart  with  remorse,  crimson  with  astonish- 
ment, but  more  deeply  wounded  in  her  pride,  the  child 
»at  immovable  on  the  sofa. 

"  Bella/'  whispered  her  little  brother,  "  I  don't  like 
Cousin  Antony,  do  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  her  brother,  touched  by  Gardiner's 
chivalry. 

"  I  fink  he's  a  mean  man,  Bella." 

"  He's  dreadful,"  she  cried,  incensed ;  "  he's  just  too 
horrid  for  anything.  Anyhow,  it  was  me  made  Cedersholm 
write  that  letter  for  him,  and  he  didn't  even  say  he  was 
obliged." 

She  ran  to  the  window  to  watch  Antony  go,  as  he 
always  did,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  in  order  that  the 
children  might  see  him.  She  hoped  for  a  reconcilement, 
or  a  soothing  wave  of  his  hand ;  but  Antony  did  not  pass, 
the  window  was  icy  cold,  and  she  turned,  discomfited. 
At  her  foot  —  for  as  Antony  had  snatched  up  his  coat  he 
had  wantonly  desecrated  a  last  resting-place  —  at  her  foot 
lay  the  blackbird.  With  a  murmured  word  Bella  lifted 
Jetty  in  both  hands  to  her  cheek,  and  on  the  cold  breast 
and  toneless  throat  the  tears  fell  —  Bella's  first  real  tears. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FAIRFAX  went  into  the  studio  of  the  first  sculptor  in  the 
United  States  with  set  determination  to  find  work. 
Ceder&holm  was  cool  and  absorbed,  occupied  and  pre- 
occupied, overburdened  with  orders,  all  of  which  meant 
money  and  fame,  but  required  time.  Fairfax  was  an 
hour  and  a  half  late,  and,  in  spite  of  the  refusal  of  the 
manservant,  came  limping  in,  and  found  the  master 
taking  a  glass  of  hot  milk  and  a  biscuit.  Cedersholm 
reposed  on  a  divan  in  the  corner  of  a  vast  studio  giving  on 
a  less  magnificent  workroom.  The  studio  was  in  semi- 
darkness,  and  a  table  near  the  sofa  bore  a  lamp  whose 
light  lit  the  sculptor's  face.  To  Fairfax,  Cedersholm  was 
a  lion  and  wore  a  mane.  In  reality,  he  was  a  small, 
insignificant  man  who  might  have  been  a  banker.  The 
Southerner  introduced  himself,  and  when  he  was  seated 
by  the  sculptor's  side,  began  to  expose  his  projects,  to 
dream  aloud.  He  could  have  talked  for  ever,  but  the 
sum  of  what  he  said  was  that  he  wanted  to  enter  Ceders- 
holm's  studio. 

"  The  old  Italians  took  subordinates,  sir/'  he  pleaded. 

"  There  are  classes  at  Cooper  Union,"  Cedersholm 
began. 

But  Fairfax,  his  clear  eyes  on  the  artist,  said,  "But  I 
want  to  work  under  a  genius." 

The  other,  complimented,  pushed  his  milk  aside  and 
wiped  his  lips. 

"Well,  of  course,  there  is  plenty  of  hard  work  to  be 
done  right  here  in  this  studio."  He  spoke  cautiously  and 
in  a  measured  tone.  "  I  have  workmen  with  me,  but  no 
artists." 

Fairfax  patiently  waited.  He  was  as  verdant  as  the 
young  jasmine  leaves,  as  inexperienced  and  guileless  as  a 
child. 

57 


58  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  taking  such  an  assistant  as  you 
represent,  Mr.  Fairfax."  The  older  man  fixed  him  with 
clever  eyes.  "  A  man  must  have  no  end  of  courage  in  him, 
no  end  of  patience,  no  end  of  humility,  to  do  what  you  say 
you  want  to  do." 

The  young  man  bowed  his  head.  "  Courage,  patience, 
and  humility  are  the  attributes  of  genius,  sir." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Cedersholm,  "  they  are,  but  ordinary 
talent  will  do  very  well  in  my  workshop,  and  it  is  all  that 
I  need  in  a  subordinate." 

Fairfax  smiled  lightly.  "  I  think  I  may  say  I  am  a 
good  worker,  Mr.  Cedersholm.  Any  hod-carrier  may 
say  that  without  vanity,  and  if  you  turn  me  out,  I'll  take 
a  mason's  place  at  two  dollars  a  day." 

Cedersholm  smiled.  "  You  don't  look  like  a  mason," 
he  said  hesitatingly,  "  though  you  do  appear  muscular. 
What  would  be  your  suggestion  with  regard  to  our  re- 
lations?" 

(Fairfax's  eager  heart  was  saying,  "  Oh,  teach  me, 
Master,  all  you  know;  let  me  come  and  play  with  the 
clay,  finger  it,  handle  it;  set  me  loose  in  that  big,  cool, 
silent  room  beyond  there;  let  me  wander  where  I  can  see 
the  shadow  of  that  cast  and  the  white  draped  figure  from 
where  I  sit.") 

"  You  are  a  fairly  good  draftsman  ? "  Cedersholm 
asked.  "  Have  you  any  taste  for  decoration  and  applied 
design  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have." 

The  Master  rose.  "  Come  to-morrow  morning  at  ten 
and  I'll  give  you  something  to  do.  I  have  just  accepted 
a  contract  for  interior  decoration,  a  new  house  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  I  might  possibly  make  you  useful  there." 

Fairfax  walked  home  on  air.  He  walked  from  Ninth 
Street,  where  the  studio  was,  to  his  boarding-house,  in 
the  cold,  still  winter  night  —  a  long  tramp.  In  spite  of 
his  limp  he  swung  along,  his  coat  open,  his  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  his  cheeks  bright,  his  lips  smiling.  As 
he  passed  under  the  gas  lamps  they  shone  like  Oriental 
stars.  He  no  longer  shivered  at  the  cold  and,  warm  with 
faith  and  confidence,  his  heart  could  have  melted  a  storm. 
He  fairly  floated  up  Madison  Avenue,  and  by  his  side  the 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  59 

spirits  of  his  ideals  kept  him  company.  Oh,  he  would  do 
beautiful  things  for  New  York  city.  He  would  become 
great  here.  He  would  garland  the  metropolis  with  laurel, 
leave  statues  on  its  places,  that  should  bear  his  name. 
At  ten  o'clock  on  the  following  day,  he  was  to  begin  his 
apprenticeship,  and  he  would  soon  show  his  power  to 
Cedersholm.  He  felt  that  power  now  in  him  like  wine, 
like  nectar,  and  in  his  veins  the  spirit  of  creation,  the 
impulse  to  art,  rose  like  a  draught.  His  aunt  should  be 
proud  of  him,  his  uncle  should  cease  to  despise  him,  and 
the  children  —  they  would  not  understand  —  but  they 
woulcfrlJe  glad. 

When  he  reached  his  boarding-house,  Miss  Eulalie 
opened  the  door  and  cried  out  at  the  sight  of  his  face  — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Antony ;  you've  had  good  news,  sir." 

He  put  both  hands  on  the  thin  shoulders,  he  kissed  her 
roundly  on  both  cheeks.  The  cold  fresh  air  was  on  his 
cool  fresh  lips,  and  the  kiss  was  as  chaste  as  an  Alpine 
breeze. 

He  cried :  "  Good  news ;  well,  I  reckon  I  have !  The 
great  Mr.  Cedersholm  has  given  me  a  place  in  his  studio." 

He  laughed  aloud  as  she  hung  up  his  coat.  Miss 
Eulalie's  glasses  were  pushed  up  on  her  forehead  —  she 
might  have  been  his  grandmother. 

"  The  Lord  be  praised !  "  she  breathed.  "  I  have  been 
praying  for  you  night  and  day." 

"  I  shall  go  to  Cedersholm  to-morrow.  I  have  not 
spoken  about  terms,  but  that  will  be  all  right,  and  if  you 
ladies  will  be  so  good  as  to  wait  until  Saturday " 

Of  course  they  would  wait.  If  it  had  not  been  that 
their  means  were  so  cruelly  limited,  they  would  never  have 
spoken.  Didn't  he  think  ?  .  .  .  He  knew !  he  thought 
they  were  the  best,  dearest  friends  a  young  fortune  hunter 
could  have.  Wait,  wait  till  they  could  see  his  name  in 
the  papers  —  Antony  Fairfax,  the  rising  sculptor  !  Wait 
until  they  could  go  with  him  to  the  unveiling  of  his  work 
in  Central  Park! 

Supper  was  already  on  the  table,  and  Antony  talked 
to  them  both  until  they  could  hardly  wait  for  the  wonders ! 

"  When  you're  great  you'll  not  forget  us,  Mr.  Antony  ?  " 

"  Forget  them !  " 

Over  the  cold  mutton  and  the  potato   salad,   Fairfax 


60  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

held  out  a  hand  to  each,  and  the  little  old  ladies  each  laid 
a  fluttering  hand  in  his.  But  it  was  at  Miss  Eulalie  he 
looked,  and  the  remembrance  of  his  happy  kiss  on  this 
first  day  of  his  good  fortune,  made  her  more  maternal 
than  she  had  ever  hoped  to  be  in  her  life. 

There  was  a  note  for  him  on  the  table  upstairs,  a  note 
in  a  big  envelope  with  the  business  stamp  of  Mr.  Carew's 
bank  in  the  corner.  It  was  addressed  to  him  in  red  ink. 
He  didn't  know  the  handwriting,  but  guessed,  and  laughed, 
and  drew  the  letter  out. 

"DEAR  COUSIN  ANTONY, 

"  I  feel  perfectly  dreadful.  How  could  I  do 
such  a  selfish  thing?  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  and 
come  again.  I  drew  two  whole  pages  of  parlel  lines  after 
you  went  away,  some  are  nearly  strait.  I  did  it  for 
punishment.  You  forgot  the  blackbird. 

"Your  little  BELLA." 

What  a  cad  he  had  been !  He  had  forgotten  the  dead 
bird  and  been  a  brute  to  the  little  living  cousin.  As  the 
remembrance  of  how  she  had  flown  to  him  in  her  tears 
came  to  him,  a  softer  look  crossed  his  face,  fell  like  a  veil 
over  his  eyes  that  had  been  dazzled  by  the  visions  of  his 
art.  He  smiled  at  the  childish  signature,  "  Your  little 
Bella"  "  Honey  child ! "  he  murmured,  and  as  he  fell 
asleep  that  night  the  figure  of  the  little  cousin  mourning 
for  her  blackbird  moved  before  him  down  the  halls  of 
fame. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BEFORE  Fairfax  became  dead  to  the  world  he  wrote  his 
inotheiua  letter  that  made  her  cry,  reading  it  on  her 
veranda  in  the  gentle  sunlight.  Her  son  wrote  her  only 
good  news,  and  when  the  truth  was  too  black  he  disguised 
it.  But  after  his  interview  with  Cedersholm,  with  these 
first  good  tidings  he  had  to  send,  he  broke  forth  into 
ecstasy,  and  his  mother,  as  she  read,  saw  her  boy  success- 
ful by  one  turn  of  the  wheel.  Mrs.  Fairfax  laughed  and 
cried  over  the  letter. 

"  Emmy,  Master  Tony's  doing  wonders,  wonders ! 
He  is  working  under  a  great  genius  in  the  North,  but  it 
is  easy  to  see  that  Tony  is  the  spirit  of  the  studio.  He  is 
at  work  from  nine  in  the  morning  till  dark,  poor  honey 
boy!  and  he  is  making  all  the  drawings  and  designs  and 
sketches  for  a  millionaire's  palace  on  Fifth  Avenue." 

"  Fo'  de  Lawd,  Mis'  Bella." 

"  Think  of  it,  we  shall  soon  see  his  name  in  the  papers  — 
heaven  knows  where  he'll  stop.  How  proud  I  am  of  mj 
darling,  darling  boy." 

And  she  dreamed  over  the  pages  of  Antony's  closely- 
written  letter,  seeing  his  youth  and  his  talent  burn  there 
like  flame.  She  sent  him  —  selling  her  watch  and  her  drop 
earrings  to  do  so  —  a  hundred  dollars,  all  she  could  get  for 
her  jewels.  And  the  sum  of  money  came  like  manna  into 
his  famished  state.  His  mother's  gift  gave  him  courage 
to  rise  early  and  to  work  late,  and  the  silver  sang  in  his 
waistcoat  pockets  again,  and  he  paid  his  little  ladies, 
thanking  them  graciously  for  their  patience;  he  sent  his 
aunt  a  bunch  of  flowers,  bought  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
for  old  Ann,  a  box  of  colours  for  Gardiner,  and  a  book  for 
Bella. 

Then  Antony,  passing  over  the  threshold  of  the  work- 
shop, was  swallowed  up  by  art. 

61 


62  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

And  he  paid  for  his  salt ! 

How  valuable  he  was  to  Cedersholm  those  days  he 
discovered  some  ten  years  later.  Perched  on  his  high 
stool  at  the  drawing-table,  his  materials  before  him,  he 
drew  in  freehand  what  his  ideas  suggested.  The  third 
day  he  went  with  Cedersholm  to  the  palace  of  Rudolph 
Field  on  Fifth  Avenue  to  inspect  the  rooms  to  be  decorated. 
Fairfax  went  into  the  "  Castle  of  the  Chinking  Guineas  " 
(as  he  called  it  in  writing  to  his  mother),  as  buoyantly  as 
though  he  had  not  a  leaking  boot  on  one  foot  and  a  bill 
for  a  cheap  suit  of  clothes  in  his  pocket.  He  mentally 
ranged  his  visions  on  the  frieze  he  was  to  consider,  and  as 
he  thought,  his  own  stature  seemed  to  rise  gigantic  in  the 
vast  salon.  He  was  alone  with  Cedersholm.  The  Fields 
were  in  Europe,  not  to  return  until  the  palace  had  been 
made  beautiful. 

Cedersholm  planned  out  his  scheme  rather  vaguely, 
discoursing  on  a  commonplace  theme,  indicating  ceilings 
and  walls,  and  Fairfax  heard  him  through  his  own  medita- 
tions. He  impulsively  caught  the  Master's  arm,  and 
himself  pointing,  "  Just  there,"  he  said,  "  why  not  .  .  " 
And  when  he  had  finished,  Cedersholm  accepted,  but  with- 
out warmth. 

"  Perfectly.  You  have  caught  my  suggestions,  Mr. 
Fairfax,"  and  poor  Antony  shut  his  lips  over  his  next 
flight. 

In  the  same  week  Cedersholm  left  for  Florida,  and 
Fairfax,  in  the  deserted  studio,  sketched  and  modelled 
a  sa  /aim,  as  the  French  say,  as  old  Professor  Dufaucon 
used  to  say,  and  as  the  English  say,  less  materially,  "  to 
his  soul's  content."  February  went  by  in  this  fashion, 
and  Fairfax  was  only  conscious  of  it  when  the  day  came 
round  that  he  must  pay  his  board  and  had  nothing  to  do 
it  with.  Cedersholm  was  to  return  in  a  few  days,  and  he 
would  surely  be  reimbursed  —  to  what  extent  he  had  no 
notion.  His  excitement  rose  high  as  he  took  an  inventory 
of  his  work,  of  his  essays  and  drawings  and  bas  reliefs, 
his  projects  for  the  ceiling  of  the  music  room.  At  one 
time  his  labour  seemed  of  the  best  quality,  and  then 
again  so  poor,  so  abortive,  that  the  young  fellow  had  more 
than  half  a  mind  to  destroy  the  lot  before  the  return  of 
the  Master.  During  the  last  week  he  had  a  comrade,  a 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  63 

great,  soft-eyed,  curly-locked  Italian,  who  didn't  speak  a 
word  of  English,  who  arrived  gentle  as  an  ox  to  put  him- 
self under  the  yoke  of  labour.  Antony,  thanks  to  his 
keenness  and  his  gift  for  languages,  and  his  knowledge  of 
French,  made  out  something  of  what  he  was  and  from 
where.  He  had  been  born  in  Carrara  and  was  a  worker  in 
marble  in  his  own  land,  and  had  come  to  work  on  the 
fountain  for  the  music  room  in  the  Field  palace. 

"  The  fountain !  "  Fairfax  tumbled  over  his  sketches 
and  showed  one  to  his  brown-eyed  friend,  who  told  him 
rapidly  that  it  was  "divinely  beautiful,"  and  asked  to 
see  the"clay  model. 

None  had  been  made. 

The  same  night,  Fairfax  wrote  to  Oedersholm  that  he 
had  begun  a  model  of  the  fountain,  and  in  the  following 
days  was  up  to  his  ears  and  eyes  in  clay. 

The  block  of  marble  arrived  from  Italy,  and  Fairfax 
superintended  its  difficult  entry  by  derrick  through  the 
studio  window.  He  restrained  "  Benvenuto  Cellini,"  as 
he  called  his  comrade,  from  cutting  into  the  marble,  and 
the  Italian  used  to  come  and  sit  idle,  for  he  had  no  work 
to  do,  and  waited  Cedersholm's  orders.  He  used  to  come 
and  sit  and  stare  at  his  block  of  marble  and  sing 
pleasantly  — 

"  Aria  pura 

Cielo  azuro 

Mia  Maddelena," 

and  jealously  watch  Fairfax  who  could  work.  Fairfax 
could  and  did,  in  a  long  blouse  made  for  him  by  Miss 
Mitty,  after  his  directions.  With  a  twenty-five  cent 
book  of  phrases,  Fairfax  in  no  time  mastered  enough 
Italian  to  talk  with  his  companion,  and  his  own  baritone 
was  sweet  enough  to  blend  with  Benvenuto  Cellini's 
"  Mia  Maddelena,"  and  other  songs  of  the  same  character, 
and  he  exulted  in  the  companionship  of  the  young  man, 
and  talked  at  him  and  over  him,  and  dreamed  aloud  to 
him,  and  Benvenuto,  who  had  only  the  dimmest  idea  of 
what  the  frenzy  meant  —  not  so  dim,  possibly,  for  he  knew 
it  was  the  ravings  of  art  —  supplied  the  "  bellisimos  "  and 
"  grandiosos,"  and  felt  the  spirit  of  the  moment,  and  was 
young  with  Fairfax,  if  not  as  much  of  a  soul  or  a  talent. 


64  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

The  model  for  the  fountain  was  completed  before 
Cedersholm's  return.  After  a  month's  rest  under  the 
palms  of  Florida,  the  sculptor  lounged  into  the  studio, 
much  as  he  might  have  strolled  up  a  Paris  boulevard  and 
ordered  a  liqueur  at  a  round  table  before  some  favourite 
cafe.  Cedersholm  had  hot  milk  and  biscuits  in  a  corner 
instead,  and  Fairfax  drew  off  the  wet  covering  from  his 
clay.  Cedersholm  enjoyed  his  light  repast,  considering 
the  model  which  nearly  filled  the  corner  of  the  room. 
He  fitted  in  an  eyeglass,  and  in  a  distinguished  manner 
regarded  the  modelling.  Fairfax,  who  had  been  cold 
with  excitement,  felt  his  blood  run  tepid  in  his  veins. 

"  And  your  sketches,  Fairfax  ?  "  asked  the  Master,  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

Fairfax  carried  him  over  a  goodly  pile  from  the  table. 
Cedersholm  turned  them  over  for  a  long  time,  and  finally 
held  one  out,  and  said  — 

"  This  seems  to  be  in  the  scale  of  the  measurements 
of  the  library  ceiling  ?  " 

Fairfax's  voice  sounded  childish  to  himself  as  he  re- 
sponded — 

"  I  think  it's  correct,  sir,  to  working  scale." 

"  It  might  do  with  a  few  alterations,"  said  Cedersholm. 
"  If  you  care  to  try  it,  Fairfax,  it  might  do.  I  will  order 
the  scaffolding  placed  to-morrow,  and  you  can  sketch  it 
in,  in  charcoal.  It  can  always  come  out,  you  know. 
You  might  begin  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

The  Master  rose  leisurely  and  looked  about  him. 
"Jove,"  he  murmured,  "it's  good  to  be  back  again  to 
the  lares  and  penates." 

Fairfax  left  the  Master  among  the  lares  and  penates, 
left  him  amongst  the  treasures  of  his  own  first  youth,  the 
first-fruits  of  his  ardent  young  labour,  and  he  went  out, 
not  conscious  of  how  he  quivered  until  he  was  on  his  way 
up-town.  What  an  ass  he  was !  No  doubt  the  stuff  was 
rubbish!  What  could  he  hope  to  attain  without  study 
and  long  apprenticeship?  Why,  he  was  nothing  more 
than  a  boy.  Cedersholm  had  been  decent  not  to  laugh 
in  his  face  —  Cedersholm's  had  been  at  once  the  kindest 
and  the  cruelest  criticism.  He  called  himself  a  thousand 
times  a  fool.  He  had  no  talent,  he  was  marked  for 
failure.  He  would  sweep  the  streets,  however,  and  lay 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  65 

bricks,  before  he  went  back  to  his  mother  in  New  Orleans 
unsuccessful.  His  letters  home,  his  excitement  and 
enthusiasm,  how  ridiculous  they  seemed,  how  fatuous  his 
boastings  before  the  old  ladies  and  little  Bella ! 

Fairfax  passed  his  boarding-house  and  walked  on,  and 
as  he  walked  he  recalled  what  Cedersholm  had  said  the 
day  he  engaged  him :  "  Courage,  patience,  humility." 
These  words  had  cooled  his  anger  as  nothing  else  could 
have  done,  and  laid  their  salutary  touch  on  his  flushed 
face. 

"  Tjtese  qualities  are  the  attributes  of  genius. 
Mediocrity  is  incapable  of  possessing  them."  He 
would  have  them  all,  every  one,  every  one !  Courage, 
he  was  full  of  it.  Patience  he  didn't  know  by  sight. 
Humility  he  had  despised  —  the  poor  fellow  did  not  know 
that  its  hand  touched  him  as  he  strode. 

"  I  ought  to  be  thankful  that  he  didn't  kick  me  out," 
he  thought.  "  I  daresay  he  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at 
my  abortions !  " 

Then  he  remembered  his  design  for  the  ceiling,  and  at 
the  Carews'  doorstep  he  paused.  Cedersholm  had  told 
him  to  draw  it  on  the  Field  ceiling.  This  meant  that  he 
had  another  chance. 

"It's  perfectly  ripping  of  the  old  boy,"  he  thought, 
enthusiastically,  as  he  rang  the  door-bell.  "I'll  begin 
to-morrow." 

Bella  opened  the  door  to  him. 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

THE  following  year  —  in  January  —  lying  on  his  back  on 
the  scaffolding,  Fairfax  drew  in  his  designs  for  the 
millionaire's  ceiling,  freely,  boldly,  convincingly,  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  the  eye  of  the  proprietor  —  he  was  a 
fat,  practical,  easy-going  millionaire,  who  had  made 
money  out  of  hog's  lard  —  it  is  doubtful  that  Mr.  Field's 
eyes,  when  gazing  upward,  saw  the  things  that  Fairfax 
thought  he  drew. 

Fairfax  whistled  softly  and  drew  and  drew,  and  his 
cramped  position  was  painful  to  his  left  leg  and  thigh. 
Benvenuto  Cellini  came  below  and  sang  up  at  him  — 

"  Cielo  azuro, 
Giornata  splendida 
Ah,  Maddelena," 

and  told  him  in  Italian  about  his  own  affairs,  and  Fairfax 
half  heard  and  less  than  half  understood.  Cedersholm 
came  once,  bade  him  draw  on,  always  comforting  one  of 
them  at  least,  with  the  assurance  that  the  work  could  be 
taken  out. 

During  the  following  weeks,  Fairfax  never  went  back 
to  the  studio,  and  one  day  he  swung  himself  down  when 
Cedersholm  came  in,  and  said  — 

"  I'm  a  little  short  of  money,  sir." 

Cedersholm  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  gave 
Antony  a  bill  with  the  air  of  a  man  to  whom  money  is  as 
disagreeable  and  dangerous  as  a  contagious  disease. 
The  bill  was  for  fifty  dollars,  and  seemed  a  great  deal 
to  Antony;  then  a  great  deal  too  little,  and,  in 
comparison  with  his  debts,  it  seemed  nothing  at  all. 

66 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  67 

Cedersholm  had  followed  up  his  payment  with  an 
invitation  to  Antony  to  come  to  Ninth  Street  the  following 
day. 

"  I  am  sketching  out  my  idea  for  the  pedestal  in  Cen- 
tral Park.  Would  you  care  to  see  it?  It  might  interest 
you  as  a  student." 

The  ceiling  in  Rudolph  Field's  house  is  not  all  the 
work  of  Antony  Fairfax.  Half-way  across  the  ceiling  he 
stopped.  It  is  easy  enough  to  see  where  the  painting  is 
carried  on  by  another  hand.  He  finished  the  has  reliefs 
at  the^-end  of  March,  and  the  fine  frieze  running  round  the 
little  music-room.  Mr.  Field  liked  music  little  and  had 
his  room  in  proportion. 

Antony  stood  with  Cedersholm  in  the  studio  where  he 
had  made  his  scheme  for  the  fountain  and  his  first 
sketches.  Cedersholm's  design  for  the  base  of  the 
pedestal,  designed  to  support  the  winged  victory,  was 
placed  against  the  wall.  It  was  admirable,  harmonious, 
noble. 

Fairfax  had  seen  Cedersholm  work.  The  sculptor 
wore  no  apron,  no  blouse.  He  dressed  with  his  usual 
fastidiousness;  his  eyeglass  adjusted,  he  worked  as 
neatly  as  a  little  old  lady  at  her  knitting,  but  his  work 
had  not  the  quality  of  wool. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Fairfax?  " 

Fairfax  started  from  his  meditation.  "  It's  immense," 
he  murmured. 

"  You  think  it  does  not  express  what  is  intended  ? " 
Cedersholm's  clever  eyes  were  directed  at  Fairfax. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  it?  " 

Without  reply,  the  young  man  took  up  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  a  piece  of  charcoal  and  drew  steadily  for  a  few 
seconds  and  held  out  the  sheet. 

"  Something  like  this  .  .  .  under  the  four  corners  .  .  . 
wouldn't  it  give  an  idea  ...  of  life?  The  Sphinx  is 
winged.  Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  its  body  should  rest  on 
life?" 

If  Cedersholm  had  in  mind  to  say,  "  You  have  quite 
caught  my  suggestion,"  he  controlled  this  remark,  covered 
his  mouth  with  his  hand,  and  considered  —  he  considered 
for  a  day  or  two.  He  then  went  to  Washington  to  talk 
with  the  architects  of  the  new  State  Museum.  And 


68  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

Fairfax  once  more  found  the  four  walls  of  the  quiet 
studio  shutting  him  in  ...  found  himself  inhabiting  with 
the  friendly  silence  and  with  the  long  days  as  spring  began 
to  come. 

He  finished  the  modelling  of  his  four  curious,  original 
creatures,  beasts  intended  to  be  the  supports  of  the 
Sphinx.  He  finished  his  work  in  Easter  week,  and  wrote 
to  Cedersholm  begging  for  his  directions  and  authority 
to  have  them  cast  in  bronze. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  four  beasts  were  of  heroic  size.  They  came  out  of 
the  moulds  like  creatures  of  a  prehistoric  age.  Benvenuto 
CellifiT,  who  was  to  have  met  his  friend  Antony  at  the 
foundry  on  the  day  Fairfax's  first  plaster  cast  was 
carried  down,  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance,  and 
Fairfax  had  the  lonely  joy,  the  melancholy,  lonely  joy, 
of  assisting  at  the  birth  of  one  of  his  big  creatures.  All 
four  of  them  were  ultimately  cast,  but  they  were  to 
remain  in  the  foundry  until  Cedersholm's  return. 

His  plans  for  the  future  took  dignity,  and  import- 
ance, from  the  fact  of  his  success,  and  he  reviewed 
with  joy  the  hard  labour  of  the  winter,  for  which  in  all 
he  had  been  paid  one  hundred  dollars.  He  was  in  need 
of  everything  new,  from  shoes  up.  He  was  a  great  dandy, 
or  would  have  liked  to  have  afforded  to  be.  As  for  a  spring 
overcoat  —  well,  he  couldn't  bear  to  read  the  tempting 
advertisements,  and  even  Gardiner's  microscopic  coat, 
chosen  by  Bella,  caused  his  big  cousin  a  twinge  of  envy. 
Bella's  new  outfit  was  complete,  a  deeper  colour  glowed 
on  the  robin-red  dress  she  wore,  and  Fairfax  felt  shabby 
between  them  as  he  limped  along  into  the  Park  under  the 
budding  trees,  a  child's  hand  on  either  arm. 

"  Cousin  Antony,  why  are  there  such  delicious  smells 
to-day?" 

Bella  sniffed  them.  The  spring  was  at  work  under 
the  turf,  the  grass  was  as  fragrant  as  a  bouquet. 

"  Breathe  it  in,  Cousin  Antony !  It  makes  you  wish 
to  do  heaps  of  things  you  oughtn't  to !  " 

On  the  pond  the  little  craft  of  the  school  children  flew 
about  like  butterflies,  the  sun  on  the  miniature  sails. 

"  What  kind  of  things  does  the  grass  cutter,  shearing 
off  a  few  miserable  dandelions,  make  you  want  to  do, 

69 


70 

Bella?  You  should  smell  the  jasmine  and  the  oleanders 
of  New  Orleans.  These  are  nothing  but  weeds/' 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ? "  she  exclaimed ;  "  besides, 
most  of  the  things  I  want  to  do  are  wicked,  anyhow." 

"  Jove !  "  exclaimed  Fairfax.     "  That  is  a  confession." 

She  corrected.  "  You  ought  not  to  say  '  Jove '  like 
that,  Cousin  Antony.  You  can  cut  it  and  make  it  sound 
like  '  Jovah,'  it  sounds  just  like  it." 

"  What  wicked  things  do  you  want  to  do,  Bella  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  merry-go-rounds,  where  the 
giraffes,  elephants,  and  horses  raced  madly  round  to  the 
plaintive  tune  of  "  Annie  Laurie,"  ground  out  by  a 
hurdy-gurdy. 

"  I'd  love  to  go  on." 

Fairfax  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  but  she  pulled  it 
back. 

"No,  Cousin  Antony,  please.  It's  not  the  money  that 
keeps  me  back,  though  I  haven't  any.  It's  Sunday,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,"  her  cousin  accepted  dismally. 

And  Bella  indicated  a  small  boy  carrying  a  tray  of 
sweets  who  had  advanced  towards  the  three  with  a  hopeful 
grin. 

"  I'd  perfectly  love  to  have  some  of  those  lossingers, 
but  mother  says  '  street  candy  isn't  pure.'  Besides,  it's 
Sunday." 

"  Nonsense !  "  exclaimed  Fairfax.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  out  here  in  God's  free  air  you  are  going  to  preach 
me  a  sermon  ?  " 

He  beckoned  the  boy. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Gardiner,  "  can't  we  choose,  Cousin 
Antony?" 

The  little  cousins  bent  above  the  tray  and  slowly  and 
passionately  selected,  and  their  absorption  in  the  essence 
of  wintergreen,  sassafras,  and  peppermint  showed  him 
how  much  this  pleasure  meant  to  these  rich  children. 
Their  pockets  full,  they  linked  their  arms  in  his  again. 

"  I  have  never  had  such  fun  in  all  my  life  as  I  do  with 
you,  Cousin  Antony,"  Bella  told  him. 

"  Then  come  along,"  he  suggested,  recklessly.  "  You 
must  ride  once  on  the  merry-go-round."  And  before  the 
little  Puritans  realized  the  extent  of  their  impiety,  Fairfax 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  71 

had  lifted  Bella  on  a  horse  and  Gardiner  on  an  elephant, 
paid  their  fare  and  started  them  away.  He  watched 
Bella,  her  hat  caught  by  its  elastic,  fallen  off  her  head  on 
the  first  round,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  like  stars, 
and  bravely  her  straight  little  arm  stretched  out  to  catch 
the  ring.  There  was  triumph  in  her  cry,  "  Oh,  Cousin 
Antony,  Cousin  Antony,  I've  won  the  ring !  " 

Such  flash  and  sparkle  as  there  was  about  her,  with  her 
teeth  like  grains  of  corn  and  her  eyes  dancing  as  she  nodded 
and  smiled  at  him !  Poor  little  Gardiner !  Antony  paid 
for  h in*  again  and  patted  him  on  the  back.  There  was  a 
pathos  about  the  mild,  sweet  little  face  and  in  the  timid, 
ineffectual  arm,  too  short  and  too  weak  to  snap  the  iron 
ring  on  to  his  sword.  Bella  rode  till  "  Annie  Laurie " 
changed  to  "  Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  river,"  and 
Fairfax's  heart  beat  for  Louisiana,  and  he  had  come  to 
the  end  of  his  nickels.  He  lifted  the  children  down. 

Bella  now  wound  both  arms  firmly  in  her  cousin's,  and 
clung  to  him. 

"  Think  of  it,  I  never  rode  before,  never !  All  the 
children  on  the  block  have,  though.  Isn't  it  perfectly 
delightful,  Cousin  Antony?  I  wish  your  legs  weren't  so 
long." 

"  Cousin  Antony/'  asked  little  Gardiner,  "  couldn't 
we  go  over  to  the  animals  and  see  the  seals  fall  off  and 
dwown  themselves  ?  " 

They  saw  the  lion  in  his  lair  and  the  "  tiger,  tiger 
burning  bright,"  and  the  shining,  slippery  seals,  and 
they  made  an  absorbed  group  at  the  nettings  where 
Antony  discoursed  about  the  animals  as  he  discoursed 
about  art,  and  Spartacus  talked  to  them  about  the  wild 
beast  show  in  Cesar's  arena.  His  audience  shivered  at 
his  side. 

They  walked  up  the  big  driveway,  and  Fairfax  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  Mall,  and  observed  that  the  earth 
was  turned  up  round  a  square  some  twelve  feet  by  twelve. 
He  half  heard  the  children  at  his  side;  his  eyes  were 
fastened  on  the  excavation  for  the  pedestal  of  the  Sphinx; 
the  stone  base  would  soon  be  raised  there,  and  then  his 
beasts  would  be  poised. 

"  Let's  walk  over  to  the  Mall,  children." 

Along  the  walk  the  small  goat  carriages  were  drawn 


72  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

.up  with  their  teams;  little  landaus,  fairy-like  for  small 
folk  to  drive  in.  Fairfax  stood  before  the  cavity  in  the 
earth  and  the  scaffolding  left  by  the  workmen.  He  was 
conscious  of  his  little  friends  at  length  by  the  dragging 
on  his  arms  of  their  too  affectionate  weight.  "  Cousin 
Antony/' 

Fairfax  waved  to  the  vacant  spot.  "  Oh,  Egypt, 
Egypt/'  he  began,  in  his  "  recitation  voice,"  a  voice 
that  promised  treats  at  home,  but  that  palled  in  the 
sunny  open,  with  goat  rides  in  the  fore-ground. 

"  Out  of  the  soft,  smooth  coral  of  thy  sands, 
Out  of  thy  Nilus  tide,  out  of  thy  heart, 
Such  dreams  have  come,  such  mighty  splendours " 

Bella,  do  you  see  that  harmonious  square  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered  casually,  with  a  lack  lustre. 
"  And  do  you  see  the  goats  ?  " 

"  Goats,  Bella !  I  see  a  pedestal  some  ten  feet  high, 
and  on  it  at  its  four  corners,  before  they  poise  the  Sphinx  — 
what  do  you  think  I  see,  Bella  ?  " 

".  .  .  Cousin  Antony,  that  boy  there  has  the  sweetest 
goats.  They're  almost  clean!  Too  dear  for  anything! 
With  such  cunning  noses !  " 

He  dropped  his  arm  and  put  his  hand  on  the  little 
girl's  shoulder  and  turned  her  round. 

"  I'm  disappointed  in  you  for  the  first  time,  honey," 
he  said. 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Antony." 

"  Little  cousin,  this  is  where  my  creatures,  my  beautiful 
bronze  creatures,  are  to  be  eternally  set  —  there,  there 
before  your  eyes."  He  pointed  to  the  blue  May  air. 

"  Cousin  Antony,"  said  Gardiner's  slow  voice,  "  the 
only  thing  I'm  not  too  tired  to  do  is  to  wide  in  a  goat 
carwage." 

Fairfax  lifted  the  little  boy  in  his  arms.  "If  I  lift 
you,  Gardiner,  like  this,  high  in  my  arms,  you  could 
just  about  see  the  top  of  the  pedestal.  Wait  till  it's 
unveiled,  my  hearties !  Wait  —  wait !  " 

He  put  Gardiner  down  with  a  laugh  and  a  happy  sigh, 
and  then  he  saw  the  goats. 

"  Do  you  want  a  ride,  children  ?  " 


73 

"Did  they!" 

He  ran  his  hands  through  the  pockets  that  had  been 
wantonly  emptied. 

"  Not  a  picayune,  honey.  Your  poor  old  cousin  is  dead 
broke." 

"  Then,"  said  Bella,  practically,  "  let's  go  right  away 
from  here,  Cousin  Antony.  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  those 
goats  another  minute.  It  hurts." 

Fairfax  regarded  her  thoughtfully.  "Bella  the 
Desirous,"  he  murmured.  "What  are  you  going  to  be 
when  you  grow  up,  little  cousin  ?  " 

They"  started  slowly  away  from  temptation,  away  from 
the  vision  of  the  pedestal  and  the  shadowy  creatures,  and 
the  apparition  of  the  Sphinx  seemed  to  brood  over  them 
as  they  went,  and  nothing  but  a  Sphinx's  wisdom  could 
have  answered  the  question  Fairfax  put :  "  What  are  you 
going  to  be  when  you  grow  up,  little  Bella  ?  " 

Fairfax  soon  carried  the  little  boy,  and  Bella  in  a 
whisper  said  — 

"  He  is  almost  too  small  for  our  parties,  Cousin 
Antony." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  limping  cousin,  stoically.  "  We 
couldn't  get  on  without  him,  could  we,  old  chap  ?  " 

But  the  old  chap  didn't  answer,  for  he  had  fallen 
asleep  as  soon  as  his  head  touched  his  cousin's  shoulder. 

When  Fairfax  left  them  at  their  door,  he  was  surprised 
at  Bella's  melancholy.  She  held  out  to  him  the  sticky 
remnant  of  the  roll  of  lozenges. 

"  Please  take  it.     I  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  eat  it." 

"  But  what  on  earth's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said  heroically,  "  you  don't  have 
to  bear  it.  You're  Episcopalian;  but  I've  got  to  tell!" 
She  sighed  heavily.  "  I  don't  care ;  it  was  worth  it !  " 

As  the  door  clicked  behind  the  children,  Fairfax 
laughed. 

"  What  a  little  trump  she  is !  She  thinks  the  game  is 
worth  the  candle !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THAT  miserable  foot  of  his  gave  him  pain.  The  unusual 
strain  of  standing  long  at  his  work,  the  tramps  he  took  to 
save  car-fare,  wearied  him,  and  he  was  finally  laid  up  for 
ten  days.  No  one  missed  him,  apparently,  and  the  long, 
painful  hours  dragged,  and  he  saw  no  one  but  his  little 
landladies.  His  mother,  as  if  she  knew,  sent  him  extra 
money  and  wonderful  letters  breathing  pride  in  him  and 
confidence  in  his  success.  When  he  was  finally  up  and 
setting  forth  again  to  the  studio,  a  visitor  was  announced. 
Fairfax  thought  of  Benvenuto  —  (he  would  have  been 
welcome)  —  he  thought  of  Bella,  and  not  of  his  Aunt 
Caroline. 

"  My  dear  boy,  why  didn't  you  let  us  know  you  had 
been  ill?" 

There  is  something  exquisite  to  a  man  in  the  presence 
of  a  woman  in  his  sick-room,  be  she  lovely  or  homely,  old 
or  young. 

"  This  is  awfully,  awfully  good  of  you,  Auntie.  I've 
had  a  mighty  bad  time  with  this  foot  of  mine." 

Mrs.  Carew  in  her  street  dress,  ready  for  an  all-day's 
shopping,  came  airily  in  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  nephew's 
shoulder.  Fairfax  thought  he  saw  a  look  of  Bella,  a  look 
of  his  mother.  He  eagerly  leaned  forward  and  kissed  his 
visitor. 

"  It's  mighty  good  of  you,  Auntie." 

"No,  my  dear  boy,  it  isn't!  I  really  didn't  know  you 
were  ill.  We  would  have  sent  you  things  from  the 
Buckingham.  Our  own  cook  is  so  poor." 

She  couldn't  sit  down,  she  had  just  run  in  on  her  way 
to  shop.  She  had  something  to  say  to  him  .  .  . 

"  What's  wrong,  Aunt  Caroline  ?  " 

His  aunt  took  a  seat  beside  him  on  the  bed.  Her 

74 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  75 

dove-like  eyes  wandered  about  his  room,  bare  save  for 
the  drawings  on  the  walls  and  on  a  chair  in  the  corner,  a 
cast  covered  by  a  wet  cloth.  Mrs.  Carew's  hands  clasped 
over  her  silk  bead  purse  hanging  empty  between  the 
rings. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  a  great  favour  of  you,  Antony.'* 

He  repeated,  in  astonishment,  "Of  me  —  why,  Auntie, 
anything  that  I  can  do  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Carew's  slender  figure  undulated,  the  sculptor 
thought.  She  made  him  think  of  a  swan  —  of  a  lily.  Her 
pale,  ineffectual  features  had  an  old-fashioned  loveli- 
ness. 'He  put  his  hand  over  his  aunt's.  He  murmured 
devotedly  — 

"  You  must  let  me  do  anything  there  is  to  do." 

"  I  am  in  debt,  Tony,"  she  murmured,  tremulously. 
"  Y6ur  uncle  gives  me  so  little  money  —  it's  impossible  to 
run  the  establishment." 

He   exclaimed  hotly,   "  It's  a  shame,  Aunt  Caroline." 

"  Henry  thinks  we  spend  a  great  deal  of  money,  but 
I  like  to  dress  the  children  well." 

Her  nephew  recalled  Bella's  wardrobe.  Mrs.  Carew, 
as  though  she  confessed  a  readily-forgiven  fault, 
whispered  — 

"  I  am  so  fond  of  bric-a-brac,  Antony." 

He  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  Down  in  Maiden  Lane  last  week  I  bought  a  beautiful 
lamp  for  the  front  hall.  I  intended  paying  for  it  by 
instalments ;  but  I've  not  been  able  to  save  enough  — 
the  men  are  waiting  at  the  house.  I  can't  tell  your  uncle, 
I  really  can't.  He  would  turn  me  out  of  doors." 

Over  Fairfax's  mind  flashed  the  picture  of  the  "  Soul 
of  honour "  confronted  by  a  debt  to  a  Jew  ironmonger. 
His  aunt's  daily  pilgrimage  began  to  assume  a  picturesque- 
ness  and  complexity  that  were  puzzling. 

"  Carew's  a  brute,"  he  said,  shortly.  "  I  can't  see  why 
you  married  him." 

Mrs.  Carew,  absorbed  in  the  picture  of  the  men  waiting 
in  the  front  hall  and  the  iron  lamp  waiting  as  well,  did  not 
reply. 

"  How  much  do  you  need,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  Only  fifty  dollars,  my  dear  boy.  I  can  give  it  back 
next  week  when  Henry  pays  me  my  allowance." 


76  FAIBFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

He  exclaimed :  "  I  am  lucky  to  have  it  to  help  you  out, 
Auntie.  I've  got  it  right  here." 

The  sense  of  security  transformed  Mrs.  C'arew.  She 
laughed  gently,  put  her  hand  on  her  nephew's  shoulder 
again,  exclaiming  — 

"How  fortunate!  Tony,  how  glad  I  am  I  thought  of 
you!" 

He  gave  her  all  of  his  mother's  gift  but  ten  dollars,  and 
as  she  bestowed  it  carefully  away  she  murmured  — 

"  It  is  a  superb  lamp,  and  a  great  bargain.  You  shall 
see  it  lit  to-night." 

"  I'm  afraid  not  to-night,  Aunt  Caroline.  I'm  off  to 
see  Cedersholm  now,  and  I  shan't  be  up  to  much,  I 
reckon,  when  I  get  back." 

His  visitor  rose,  and  Fairfax  discovered  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  detain  her  as  he  had  thought  to  do  before  she 
had  mentioned  her  errand.  She  seemed  to  have  entirely 
escaped  him.  She  was  as  intangible  as  air,  as  unreal. 

As  he  opened  the  door  for  her,  considering  her,  he 
said  — 

"Bella  looks  very  much  like  my  mother,  doesn't  she, 
Aunt  Caroline  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carew  thought  that  Bella  resembled  her  father. 

As  Fairfax  took  his  car  to  go  down  to  Ninth  Street,  he 
said  to  himself  — 

"  If  this  is  the  first  sentimental  history  on  which  I  am 
to  embark,  it  lacks  romance  from  the  start." 


CHAPTEE  XX    . 

AT  the   studio  he  was  informed  by   Cedersholm's  man, 
Charlej^that  his  master  was  absent  on  a  long  voyage. 

"  He  has  left  me  a  letter,  Charley,  a  note  ?  " 

"  Posted  it,  no  doubt,  sir." 

Charley  asked  Mr.  Fairfax  if  he  had  been  ill.  Charley 
was  thoroughly  sympathetic  with  the  Southerner,  but  he 
was  as  well  an  excellent  servant,  notwithstanding  that  he 
served  a  master  whom  he  did  not  understand. 

"  I  should  like  to  get  my  traps  in  the  studio,  Charley." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Fairfax."     But  Charley  did  not  ask  him  in. 

"  I'll  come  back  again  to-morrow.  .  .  .  I'll  find  a  note 
at  home." 

"  Sure  to,  Mr.  Fairfax." 

"  Benvenuto  been  around  ?  " 

The  Italian  had  sailed  home  to  Italy  on  the  last  week's 
steamer.  Fairfax,  too  troubled  and  dazed  to  pursue  the 
matter  further,  did  not  comprehend  how  strange  it  all 
was.  The  doors  of  the  studio  were  henceforth  shut  against 
him,  and  Charley  obeyed  the  mysterious  orders  given  him. 
There  reigned  profound  mystery  at  the  foundry.  The 
young  man  was  sensible  of  a  reticence  among  the  men, 
who  lacked  Charley's  kindliness.  Every  one  waited  for 
Cedersholm's  orders. 

The  Beasts  were  cast. 

"  Look  out  how  you  treat  those  moulds,"  he  fiercely 
ordered  the  men.  "  Those  colossi  belong  to  me.  What's 
the  damage  for  casting  them  ?  " 

At  the  man's  response,  Fairfax  winced  and  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  empty  pockets. 

Under  his  breath  he  said :  "  Damn  Cedersholm  for  a 
cold-blooded  brute !  My  youth  and  my  courage  have  gone 
into  these  weeks  here." 

77 


78  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

As  he  left  the  foundry  he  repeated  his  injunction  about 
the  care  of  the  moulds,  and  his  personal  tenderness  for  the 
bronze  creatures  was  so  keen  that  he  did  not  appreciate 
the  significant  fact  that  he  was  treated  with  scant  respect. 
He  stepped  in  at  the  Field  palace  on  the  way  up-town, 
and  a  man  in  an  official  cap  at  the  door  asked  him  for  his 
card  of  admission. 

"  Card  of  admission  ?  Why,  I'm  one  of  the  decorators 
here.  ...  I  reckon  you're  new,  my  boy.  I  only  quit  work- 
ing a  fortnight  ago." 

He  was  nervous  and  pale ;  his  clothes  were  shabby. 

"  Sorry,"  returned  the  man,  "  my  orders  are  strict 
from  Mr.  Cedersholm  himself.  Nolody  comes  in  without 
his  card." 

The  sculptor  ground  his  heel  on  the  cruel  stones. 

He  had  been  shut  away  by  his  concentrated  work  in 
Cedersholm's  studio  from  outside  interests.  He  had  no 
friends  in  New  York  but  the  children.  No  friend  but  his 
aunt,  who  had  borrowed  of  him  nearly  all  he  possessed,  no 
sympathizers  but  the  little  old  ladies,  no  consolations  but 
his  visions.  In  the  May  evenings,,  now  warm,  he  sat  on 
a  bench  in  Central  Park,  listlessly  watching  the  wind  in 
the  young  trees  and  the  voices  of  happy  children  on  their 
way  to  the  lake  with  their  boats.  He  began  to  have  a 
proper  conception  of  his  own  single-handed  struggle.  He 
began  to  know  what  it  is,  without  protection  or  home  or 
any  capital,  to  grapple  with  life  first-hand. 

"  Why,  art  is  the  longest  way  in  the  world/'  he  thought. 
"  It's  the  rudest  and  steepest,  and  to  climb  it  successfully 
needs  colossal  genius,  as  well  as  the  .other  things,  and  it 
needs  money." 

He  went  slowly  back  to  his  lodging  and  his  hall  room. 
Along  the  wall  his  array  of  boots,  all  in  bad  condition  — 
his  unequal  boots  and  his  deformity  struck  him  and  his 
failure.  A  mist  rose  before  his  eyes.  Over  by  the  mirror 
he  had  pinned  the  sketch  he  liked  the  best. 

On  Sunday  afternoon,  in  his  desire  to  see  the  children, 
he  forgot  his  distaste  of  meeting  the  master  of  the  house, 
and  rang  the  bell  at  an  hour  when  Carew  was  likely  to  be 
at  home.  He  had,  too,  for  the  first  time,  a  wish  to  see  the 
man  who  had  made  a  success  of  his  own  life.  Whatever 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  79 

his  home  and  family  were  —  Carew  was  a  success.  Fairfax 
often  noted  his  uncle's  name  mentioned  at  directors' 
meetings  and  functions  where  his  presence  indicated  that 
the  banker  was  an  authority  on  finance.  Ever  since 
Mrs.  Carew  had  borrowed  money  of  him,  Fairfax  had  been 
inclined  to  think  better  of  his  uncle.  As  the  door  opened 
before  him  now  he  heard  singing,  and  though  the  music 
was  a  hymn,  it  rolled  out  so  roundly,  so  fully,  so  whole- 
heartedly, that  he  knew  his  uncle  must  be  out. 

The  three  were  alone  at  the  piano,  and  the  young 
man's  fciace  brightened  at  the  sight  of  the  children.  On 
either  "side  of  their  mother  Bella  and  Gardiner  were  singing 
with  delight  the  little  boy's  favorite  hymn. 

"  No  parting  yonder, 
All  light  and  song, 
The  while  I  ponder 
And  say  '  how  long 
Shall  time  me  sunder 
From  that  glad  throng?" 

Curious  how  syllables  and  tones  and  inflections  can  con- 
tain and  hold  our  feelings,  and  how  their  memory  makes  a 
winding-sheet. 

Fairfax  came  in  quietly,  and  the  singers  finished  their 
hymn.  Then  the  children  fell  upon  him  and,  as  Gardiner 
said,  "  Cousin  Antony  always  did,"  he  "  gobbled  them  up." 

"  You  might  have  told  us  you  were  ill,"  Bella  reproved 
him.  "  When  I  heard  I  made  some  wine  jelly  for  you, 
but  it  wobbled  away,  and  Gardiner  drank  it." 

"It  wasn't  weal  wine,"  said  the  little  boy,  "or  weal 
jelly  .  .  ." 

Fairfax  glanced  toward  his  aunt,  unconsciously  looking 
to  her  for  comfort  on  this  trying  day. 

Mrs.  Carew  was  truly  embarrassed  at  the  sight  of  her 
jreditor,  but  she  continued  to  play  lightly  among  the  hymns, 
and  gave  him  up  to  the  children.  But  Fairfax  was  too 
desperate  to  be  set  aside.  If  there  was  any  comfort  any- 
where he  was  going  to  have  it.  He  said  to  his  aunt  in  a 
voice  deepened  by  feeling  — 

"  Aunt  Caroline,  I'm  a  little  down  on  my  luck." 

The  lady  turned  her  doe-like  eyes  on  her  nephew.  "  My 
dear  Tony  .  .  ." 


80  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

He  clenched  his  vigorous  hands  to  keep  down  his 
emotion. 

"Yes.  Cedersholm  has  turned  his  back  on  me,  as  far 
as  I  can  see." 

With  a  short  laugh  he  threw  off  his  intense  mood,  thor- 
oughly ashamed-  of  his  weakness. 

"  Our  branch  of  the  family,  Aunt  Caroline,  are  unlucky 
all  round,  I  reckon." 

There  was  one  thought  uppermost  in  his  aunt's  mind. 
She  had  no  money  with  which  to  pay  her  debt  to  him. 
When  there  weren't  lamps  to  buy  there  were  rugs  and 
figures  of  biscuit  Venuses  bending  over  biscuit  streams. 
She  had  confessed  her  vice ;  she  "  adored  bric-a-brac."  The 
jumble  in  her  mind  made  her  eyes  more  vague  than  ever. 

"  Will  you  go  back  South  ?  "  she  wondered. 

He  started,  spread  out  his  empty  hands.  "  Go  back  to 
mother  like  this  ?  Auntie  !  " 

As  ineffectual  as  she  had  been  on  the  night  of  his  arrival, 
so  now  Mrs.  Carew  sat  ineffectual  before  his  crisis.  She 
breathed,  "  My  poor  boy  !  "  and  her  fingers  strayed  amongst 
the  keys  and  found  the  melody  of  the  song  he  loved  so 
much. 

The  young  traveller  at  her  side  was  too  much  of  a 
man,  even  in  his  state  of  despair,  to  have  expected  a 
woman  to  lift  his  burden.  If  she  did,  he  did  not  think  of 
the  money  she  owed  him.  What  he  wanted  was  a  soothing 
touch  to  be  laid  on  his  heart,  and  the  song  in  which,  not 
six  weeks  before,  he  had  nearly  loved  his  aunt,  did  what 
she  did  not. 

The  children  had  gone  upstairs.  Mrs.  Carew  sang 
through  the  first  verse  of  the  song.  As  far  as  she  was 
concerned  nothing  could  have  been  a  greater  relief.  The 
sympathy  she  did  not  know  how  to  give,  the  debt  she  had 
never  discharged,  the  affection  she  had  for  Antony,  and 
her  own  self-pity,  Mrs.  Carew  threw  into  her  voice,  and  it 
shook  its  tremulo  through  him. 

He  breathed  devotedly :  "  Thank  you,  dear"  and  raised 
one  of  his  aunt's  hands  to  his  lips. 

Mr.  Carew  had  let  himself  in  with  his  latchkey,  and 
was  within  a  few  feet  of  them  as  his  wife  finished  her  song. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

NEITHER  Antony  nor  Mrs.  Carew  had  the  presence  of 
mind  tCTstir.  Mrs.  Fairfax  said  of  her  brother-in-law  that 
he  was  a  "  vain  creature  whose  pomposity  stood  in  place 
of  dignity."  Carew,  at  all  events,  came  upon  a  scene 
which  he  had  never  supposed  would  confront  his  eyes. 
Before  him  in  his  own  drawing-room,  a  whipper-snapper 
from  the  South  was  kissing  his  wife's  hands.  To  Carew 
the  South  was  the  heart  of  sedition,  bad  morals,  lacka- 
daisical indolence.  What  the  South  could  not  do  for  him 
in  arousing  his  distaste,  the  word  "  artist "  completed. 
He  said  to  his  wife  — 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  pass  your  Sabbath  afternoons, 
Mrs.  Carew  ?  " 

And  before  she  could  murmur,  "  My  dear  Henry  — "  he 
turned  on  Fairfax. 

"  Can't  you  find  anything  better  to  do  in  New  York, 
sir  ?  "  He  could  not  finish. 

Fairfax  rose.  "  Don't  say  anything  you  will  regret,  sir. 
I  kissed  my  aunt's  hand  as  I  would  have  kissed  my  mother's. 
Not  that  I  need  to  make  excuse." 

Mr.  Carew's  idea  of  his  own  importance,  of  the  impor- 
tance of  everything  that  belonged  to  him,  was  colossal,  and 
it  would  have  taken  more  than  this  spectacle,  unpleasant 
as  it  was,  to  make  him  fancy  his  wife  harboured  a  senti- 
ment for  her  jackanapes  of  a  nephew.  If  the  tableau  he 
had  had  time  to  observe  on  his  way  across  the  dining-room 
floor  had  aroused  his  jealousy,  that  sentiment  was  less 
strong  that  was  his  anger  and  his  dislike.  Young  Fairfax 
had  been  a  thorn  in  his  side  for  several  weeks. 

"  You  are  wise  to  make  no  excuses,"  he  said  coldly. 
"  I  could  not  understand  your  sentiments.  I  have  my 
own  ideas  of  how  a  young  man  should  employ  his  time 

81 


82  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

and  carve  out  his  existence.  Your  romantic  ideas  are  as 
unsympathetic  to  me  as  was  this  exhibition." 

Mrs.  Carew,  who  had  never  been  so  terrified  in  her  life, 
thought  she  should  faint,  but  had  presence  of  mind 
sufficient  to  realize  that  unconsciousness  would  be  pre- 
judicial to  her,  and  by  bending  over  the  keys  she  kept  her 
balance. 

She  murmured,  "  My  dear,  you  are  very  hard  on 
Antony." 

Carew  paid  no  attention  to  her.  "Your  career,  sir, 
your  manner  of  life,  are  no  affair  of  mine.  I  am  con- 
cerned in  you  as  you  fetch  your  point  of  view"  (Carew 
was  celebrated  for  his  extempore  speaking),  "your 
customs  and  your  morals  into  my  house." 

"  Believe  me,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax's  son,  in  a  choked 
voice,  "  I  shall  take  them  out  of  it  for  ever." 

Carew  bowed.  "You  are  at  liberty  to  do  so,  Fairfax. 
You  have  not  asked  my  advice  nor  my  opinions.  You 
have  ingratiated  yourself  with  my  friends,  to  my  regret 
and  theirs." 

Antony  exclaimed  violently,  "Now,  what  do  you  mean 
by  that,  sir?" 

"  I  am  in  no  way  obliged  to  explain  myself  to  you, 
Fairfax." 

"  But  you  are !  "  fairly  shouted  the  young  man.  "  With 
whom  have  I  ingratiated  myself  to  your  regret  ?  " 

"I  speak  of  Cedersholm,  the  sculptor." 

"Well,  what  does  he  say  of  me?"  pursued  the  poor 
young  man. 

"  It  seems  you  have  had  the  liberty  of  his  workshop  for 
months  — " 

"Yes," — Antony  calmed  his  voice  by  great  effort, — "I 
have,  and  I  have  slaved  in  it  like  a  nigger  —  like  a  slave  in 
the  sugar-cane.  What  of  that  ?  " 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Cedersholm  in  the 
Century  Club  had  spoken  to  Carew  lightly  of  Fairfax,  and 
ilightingly.  He  had  given  the  young  sculptor  scant 
praise,  and  had  wounded  and  cut  Carew's  pride  in  a  pos- 
session even  so  remote  as  an  undesirable  nephew  by 
marriage.  He  could  not  remember  what  Cedersholm  had 
really  said,  but  it  had  been  unfortunate. 

"I   don't  know  what   Cedersholm   has   said   to   you," 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  83 

cried  Antony  Fairfax,  "nor  do  I  care.  He  has  sapped 
my  life's  blood.  He  has  taken  the  talent  of  me  for  three 
long  months.  He  is  keeping  my  drawings  and  my  designs, 
and,  by  God  — " 

"  Stop !  "  said  Mr.  Carew,  sharply.  "  How  dare  you 
use  such  language  in  my  house,  before  my  wife  ?  " 

Antony  laughed  shortly.  He  fixed  his  ardent  blue 
eyes  on  the  older  man,  and  as  he  did  so  the  sense  of  his 
own  youth  came  to  him.  He  was  twenty  years  this  man's 
junior.  Youth  was  his,  if  he  was  poor  and  unlucky. 
The  desire  to  say  to  the  banker,  "  If  I  should  tell  you 
what  *  I"  thought  of  you  as  a  husband  and  a  father,"  he 
checked,  and  instead  cried  hotly  — 

"  God's  here,  at  all  events,  sir,  and  perhaps  my  way  of 
calling  on  Him  is  as  good  as  another." 

He  extended  his  hand.  It  did  not  tremble.  "  Good- 
bye, Aunt  Caroline." 

Hers,  cold  as  ice,  just  touched  his.  "Henry,"  she 
gasped,  "  he's  Arabella's  son." 

Again  the  scarlet  Antony  had  seen,  touched  the 
banker's  face.  Fairfax  limped  out  of  the  room.  His 
clothes  were  so  shabby  (as  he  had  said  a  few  moments 
before,  he  had  worked  in  them  like  a  nigger),  that,  warm 
as  it  was,  he  wore  his  overcoat  to  cover  his  suit.  The  coat 
lay  in  the  hall.  Bella  and  Gardiner  had  been  busy  during 
his  visit  on  their  own  affairs.  They  had  broken  open 
their  bank.  Bella's  keen  ears  had  heard  Antony's  re- 
mark to  her  mother  about  being  down  on  his  luck,  and  her 
tender  heart  had  recognized  the  heavy  note  in  his  voice. 
The  children's  bank  had  been  their  greatest  treasure 
for  a  year  or  two.  It  represented  all  the  "  serious " 
money,  as  Bella  called  it,  that  had  ever  been  given 
them.  The  children  had  been  so  long  breaking  it  open 
that  they  had  not  heard  the  scene  below  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

As  Fairfax  lifted  his  coat  quickly  it  jingled.  He  got 
into  it,  thrust  his  hands  in  the  pockets.  They  were  full 
of  coin.  His  sorrow,  anger  and  horror  were  so  keen  that 
he  was  guilty  of  the  unkindest  act  of  his  life. 

"  What's  this ! "  he  cried,  and  emptied  out  his  pockets 
on  the  floor.  The  precious  coins  fell  and  rolled  on  every 
side.  Bella  and  her  little  brother,  who  had  hid  on  the 
stairs  in  order  to  watch  the  effect  of  their  surprise,  saw  the 


84  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

disaster,  and  heard  the  beloved  cousin's  voice  in  anger. 
The  little  girl  flew  down. 

"Cousin  Antony,  how  could  you?  It  was  for  you! 
Gardiner  and  I  broke  our  bank  for  you.  There  were  ten 
dollars  there  and  fifty-nine  cents." 

There  was  nothing  gracious  in  Fairfax's  face  as  it  bent 
on  the  excited  child. 

"  Pick  up  your  money/'  he  said  harshly,  his  hand  on 
the  door.  "  Good-bye." 

"  Oh/'  cried  the  child,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  proud 
like  that.  I  didn't  know." 

"  Proud,"  he  breathed  deeply.  "  I'd  rather  starve  in  the 
gutter  than  touch  a  penny  in  this  house." 

He  saw  the  flaming  cheeks  and  averted  eyes,  and  was 
conscious  of  Gardiner's  little  steps  running  down  the  stairs, 
and  he  heard  Bella  call  "  Cousin  Antony,"  in  a  heart-rent 
voice,  as  he  opened  the  door,  banged  it  furiously,  and  strode 
out  into  the  street. 


BOOK  II 

THE  OPEN  DOOR 

•*.*,, 

CHAPTER  I 

HE  had  slept  all  night  in  a  strained  position  between  a 
barrel  of  tallow  candles  and  a  bag  of  potatoes.  In  spite 
of  the  hardness  of  the  potatoes  on  which  he  lay  and  the 
odour  of  the  candles,  he  lost  consciousness  for  a  part  of 
the  night,  and  when  he  awoke,  bruised  and  weary,  he 
found  the  car  stationary.  As  he  listened  he  could  not 
hear  a  sound,  and  crawling  out  from  between  the  sacks 
in  the  car,  he  saw  the  dim  light  of  early  dawn  through  a 
crack  in  the  door.  Pushing  open  the  sliding  door  he 
discovered  that  the  car  had  stopped  on  a  siding  in  an 
immense  railroad-yard  and  that  he  was  the  only  soul 
in  sight.  He  climbed  out  stiffly.  On  all  sides  of  him 
ran  innumerable  lines  of  gleaming  rails.  The  signal 
house  up  high  was  alight  and  the  green  and  yellow  and 
white  signal  lamps  at  the  switches  shone  bright  as  stars. 
Further  on  he  could  see  the  engine-house,  where  in  lines, 
their  cow-catchers  at  the  threshold,  a  row  of  engines 
waited,  sombre,  inert  horses  of  iron  and  steel,  superb  in 
their  repose.  Fairfax  reckoned  that  it  must  be  nearly  four- 
thirty,  and  as  he  stood,  heard  a  switch  click,  saw  a  light 
change  from  green  to  red,  and  with  a  rattle  and  commo- 
tion a  train  rolled  in  —  along  and  away.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  tracks  in  front  of  him  were  barrack-like  work- 
shops, and  over  the  closed  station  ran  a  name  in  black 
letters,  but  it  did  not  inform  Fairfax  as  to  his  whereabouts 
except  that  he  was  at  "  West  Junction."  He  made  his  way 
across  the  tracks  towards  the  workshops,  every  inch  of  him 
sore  from  his  cramped  ride. 

85 


86  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

He  always  thought  that  on  that  day  he  was  as  mentally 
unhinged  as  a  healthy  young  man  can  be.  Unbalanced 
by  hunger,  despair  and  rage,  his  kindly  face  was  drawn 
and  bore  the  pallor  of  death.  He  was  dirty  and  unshaven, 
his  heavy  boot  weighed  on  his  foot  like  lead.  Without 
any  special  direction  he  limped  across  the  tracks  and 
once,  as  he  stopped  to  look  up  and  down  the  rails  on  which 
the  daylight  was  beginning  to  glimmer,  in  his  eyes  was 
the  morbidness  of  despair.  A  signalman  from  his  box 
could  see  him  over  the  yards,  and  Fairfax  reflected  that  if 
he  lingered  he  might  be  arrested,  and  he  limped  away. 

"  Eome,  Rome,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath, 
"thou  hast  been  a  tender  nurse  to  me!  Thou  hast 
given  to  the  timid  shepherd-boy  muscles  of  iron  and  a 
heart  of  steel/' 

The  night  before  he  had  rushed  headlong  from  his 
uncle's  house,  smarting  under  injustice,  and  had  walked 
blindly  until  he  came  to  the  Forty-second  Street  station. 
His  faint  and  wretched  spirit  longed  for  nothing  but 
escape  from  the  brutal  city  where  he  had  squandered  his 
talent,  crushed  his  spirit  and  made  a  poor  apprenticeship 
to  ingratitude.  A  baggage  car  on  the  main  line,  with  an 
open  door,  was  the  only  means  of  transportation  of  which 
Fairfax  could  avail  himself,  and  he  had  crept  into  it 
undiscovered,  stowed  himself  away,  hoping  that  the 
train's  direction  was  westward  and  expecting  to  be 
thrown  out  at  any  moment.  Thus  far  his  journey  had 
been  made  undiscovered.  He  didn't  wonder  where  he 
was  —  he  didn't  care.  Any  place  was  good  enough  to  be 
penniless  in  and  to  jump  off  from!  His  one  idea  at  the 
moment  was  food. 

"  God !  "  he  thought  to  himself,  "  to  be  hungry  like  this 
and  not  be  a  beggar  or  a  criminal,  just  a  duffer  of  a  gentle- 
man of  no  account !  " 

He  reached  the  engine-house  and  passed  before  the 
line  of  iron  locomotives,  silent  and  vigorous  in  their 
quiescent  might,  and  full  of  inert  power.  He  set  his 
teeth,  for  the  locomotives  made  him  think  of  his  beloved 
beasts.  A  choking  sensation  came  in  his  throat  and 
tears  to  his  blue  eyes.  He  thrust  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  overcoat  and  went  on.  In  front  of  him  a  city 
street  came  down  to  the  tracks,  and  sharp  across  it  cut 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  87 

the  swinging  gates  which  fell  as  Fairfax  approached. 
Behind  him  the  switches  snapped;  another  train,  this 
time  a  fast  express,  rushed  past  him.  He  watched  it 
mutely;  the  flinging  up  of  the  dust  around  the  wheels, 
the  siss  and  roar  and  wind  of  its  passing  smote  through 
him.  It  was  gone. 

He  limped  on.  The  street  leading  down  to  the  tracks 
was  filthy  with  mud  and  with  the  effects  of  the  late  rain. 
It  was  to  Fairfax  an  avenue  into  an  empty  and  unknown 
town.  Small,  vile,  cobbled  with  great  stones,  the  alley 
ran  between  lines  of  two-storied  frame  buildings,  tenement 
houses'  which  were  the  home  of  the  railroad  employes. 
The  shutters  were  all  closed,  there  was  not  a  sign  of  life. 
Fairfax  came  up  with  the  signal-box  by  the  swinging  gate, 
and  a  man  with  a  rolled  red  flag  stood  in  the  doorway. 
He  looked  at  Fairfax  with  little  curiosity  and  the  young 
man  decided  not  to  ask  him  any  questions  for  fear  that 
his  stolen  ride  should  be  discovered.  As  he  passed  on 
and  went  into  the  empty  street,  he  mused  — 

"  It  is  curious  how  we  are  all  taking  pains  to  escape 
consequences  to  which  we  say  we  are  indifferent.  What 
matter  is  it  if  he  does  arrest  me?  I  should  at  least  have 
a  cup  of  coffee  at  the  station  house." 

On  either  side  of  the  alley  through  which  Fairfax  now 
walked  there  was  not  a  friendly  door  open,  or  a  shutter 
flung  back  from  a  window.  At  the  head  of  the  street 
Fairfax  stopped  and  looked  back  upon  the  yards  and  the 
tracks  of  the  workshops.  The  ugly  scene  lay  in  the 
mist  of  very  early  morning  and  the  increasing  daylight 
made  its  crudeness  each  moment  more  apparent.  As  he 
stood  alone  in  Nut  Street,  on  either  side  of  him  hundreds 
of  sleeping  workmen,  the  sun  rose  over  the  yards,  filling 
the  dreary,  unlovely  outlook  with  a  pure  glory.  To 
Fairfax's  senses  it  brought  no  consolation  but  the  sharp 
suffering  that  any  beauty  brings  to  the  poet  and  the  seer. 
It  was  a  new  day  —  he  was  too  young  to  be  crushed  out 
of  life  because  he  had  an  empty  pocket,  and  faint  as  he 
was,  hungry  as  he  was,  the  visions  began  to  rise  again  in 
his  brain.  The  crimson  glory,  as  it  swam  over  the  rail- 
road yards,  over  the  bridge,  over  the  unsightly  buildings, 
was  peopled  by  his  ideals  —  his  breath  came  fast  and  his 
heart  beat.  The  clouds  from  which  the  sun  emerged 


88  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

took  winged  shapes  and  soared;  the  power  of  the  iron 
creatures  in  the  shed  seemed  to  invigorate  him.  Fairfax 
drew  a  deep  breath  and  murmured :  "  Art  has  made  many 
victims.  I  won't  sacrifice  my  life  to  it."  And  he  seemed 
a  coward  to  himself  to  be  beaten  so  early  in  the  race. 

"  Muscles  of  iron  and  a  heart  of  steel/'  he  murmured 
again,  " a  heart  of  steel" 

He  turned  on  his  feet  and  limped  on,  and  as  he  walked 
he  saw  a  light  in  an  opposite  window  with  the  early 
opening  of  a  cheap  restaurant.  The  shutters  on  either 
side  of  Nut  Street  were  flung  back.  He  heard  the  clatter- 
ing of  feet,  doors  were  pushed  open  and  the  workers  began 
to  drift  out  into  the  day.  Antony  made  for  the  light  in 
the  coffee  house;  it  was  extinguished  before  he  arrived 
and  the  growing  daylight  took  its  place.  A  man  from  a 
lodging-house  passed  in  at  the  restaurant  door. 

Fairfax's  hands  were  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his  over- 
coat, his  fingers  touched  a  loose  button.  He  turned  it, 
but  it  did  not  feel  like  a  button.  He  drew  it  out ;  it  was 
twenty-five  cents.  He  had  not  shaken  out  quite  all  the 
children's  coins  on  the  hall  floor.  This  bit  of  silver  had 
caught  between  the  lining  and  the  cloth  and  resisted  his 
angry  fling.  As  the  young  man  looked  at  it,  his  face  soft- 
ened. He  went  into  the  eating-house  with  the  other  man 
and  said  to  himself  as  he  crossed  the  door-sill  — 

"  Little  cousin !  you  don't  know  what  ( serious ' 
money  this  is !  " 


CHAPTER  II 

A  GIRL  who  he  judged  by  her  frowzled  hair  and  her 
heavy-eyes  had  just  been  aroused  from  sleep,  stood  behind 
the  counter  pouring  hot  and  steaming  coffee  into  thick 
china  cups.  The  smell  to  the  hungry  man  was  divine. 
Fairfax's  mouth  watered.  From  the  one  pot  the  coffee 
came  out  with  milk  added,  and  from  another  the  liquid 
poured  clear.  Fairfax  asked  for  coffee  with  milk  and 
a  sandwich,  and  as  the  girl  pushed  the  plate  with  hunks 
of  bread  and  ham  towards  him,  he  asked,  "  How  much, 
please  ?  "  The  girl  raised  her  heavy  lids.  Her  gray  eyes 
could  have  sparkled  if  she  had  been  less  sleepy.  She 
glanced  at  him  and  responded  in  a  soft  brogue  — 

"  Two  cints  a  cup.     Sandwiches  two  cints  apiece." 

He  took  his  breakfast  over  to  the  table  where  a  cus- 
tomer was  already  seated  before  a  huge  breakfast.  After 
watching  Fairfax  for  a  few  moments,  this  man  said  to 
him  — 

"  Got  a  rattling  good  appetite,  Mister." 

"I  have,  indeed/'  Fairfax  returned,  "and  I'm  going 
to  begin  over  again." 

The  man  wore  a  red  shirt  under  his  coat,  his  battered 
bowler  was  a-cock  on  his  head.  Antony  often  recalled 
Sanders  as  he  looked  that  morning.  His  face  from  his 
neck  up  was  clean.  He  exuded  water  and  brown  soap; 
he  had  a  bright  healthy  colour;  he  was  a  good-looking 
workman,  but  his  hands !  Fairfax  thought  them  appalling 
—  grimed  with  coal.  They  could  never  be  washed  clean, 
Fairfax  reflected,  and  one  finger  on  the  left  hand  was 
missing. 

"Stranger?"  the  man  asked  him.  "Just  going 
through?" 

And  as  Fairfax  replied,  he  thought  to  himself,  "He 

89 


90  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

doesn't  dream  how  strange  I  am  and  that  I  don't  even 
know  the  name  of  the  town." 

He  asked  the  man,  "  Much  going  on  here  ?  " 

"  Yards.  Up  here  in  West  Albany  it's  nothing  but  yards 
and  railroading." 

"Ah,"  nodded  Fairfax,  and  to  himself:  "This  is  the 
capital  of  New  York  State  —  Albany  —  that's  where  I  am." 

And  it  was  not  far  enough  away  to  please  him. 

The  man's  breakfast,  which  had  been  fed  into  him  by 
his  knife,  was  disposed  of,  and  he  went  on  — 

"  Good  steady  employment ;  they're  decent  to  you. 
Have  to  be,  good  men  are  scarce." 

A  tall,  well-set-up  engineer  came  to  the  coffee  counter, 
and  Fairfax's  companion  called  out  to  him  — 

"  Got  your  new  fireman  yet,  Joe  ?  " 

And  the  other,  with  a  cheerful  string  of  oaths,  responded 
that  he  had  not  got  him,  and  that  he  didn't  want  anybody, 
either,  who  wasn't  going  to  stay  more  than  five  minutes  in 
his  cab. 

"  They've  got  a  sign  out  at  the  yards,"  he  finished, 
"advertising  for  hands,  and  when  I  run  in  at  noon  I'll 
call  up  and  see  what's  doing." 

Fairfax  digested  his  meal  and  watched  the  entrance 
and  exit  of  the  railroad  hands.  Nearly  all  took  their 
breakfast  standing  at  the  counter  jollying  the  girl;  only 
a  few  brakemen  and  conductors  gave  themselves  the 
luxury  of  sitting  down  at  the  table.  Antony  went  and 
paid  what  he  owed  at  the  counter,  and  found  that  the 
waitress  had  waked  up,  and,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  doled  out  coffee  and  food  to  some  fifty  customers,  she 
had  found  time  to  glance  at  "  the  new  one." 

"  Was  it  all  right?  "  she  asked. 

She  handed  him  the  change  out  of  his  quarter.  He  had 
had  a  dime's  worth  of  food. 

"  Excellent,"  Fairfax  assured  her ;  "  first-rate." 

Her  sleeves  came  only  to  the  elbow,  her  fore-arm  was 
firm  and  white  as  milk.  Her  hands  were  coarse  and  red; 
she  was  pretty  and  her  cheerfulness  touched  him. 

He  wanted  to  ask  for  a  wash-up,  but  he  was  timid. 

"  I'll  be  back  at  lunchtime,"  he  said  to  her,  nodding, 
and  the  girl,  charmed  by  his  smile,  asked  hesitatingly  — 

"Workin'here?" 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  91 

And  as  Fairfax  said  "  No  "  rather  quickly,  she  flushed 
scarlet. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  murmured. 

He  was  as  keen  to  get  out  of  the  restaurant  now  as  he 
had  been  to  cross  its  threshold.  The  room  grew  small 
around  him,  and  he  felt  himself  too  closely  confined  with 
these  common  workmen,  with  whom  for  some  reason  or 
other  he  began  to  feel  a  curious  fraternity.  Once  outside 
the  house,  instead  of  taking  his  way  into  the  more  im- 
portant part  of  West  Albany,  he  retraced  his  steps  down 
Nut  Street,  now  filled  with  men  and  women.  Opposite 
the  gtfteman's  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  he  saw  a  sign 
hanging  in  a  window,  "  New  York  Central  Railroad," 
and  under  this  was  a  poster  which  read,  "  Men  wanted. 
Apply  here  between  nine  and  twelve/' 

Fairfax  read  the  sign  over  once  or  twice,  and  found 
that  it  fascinated  him.  This  brief  notice  was  the  only 
call  he  had  heard  for  labour,  it  was  the  only  invitation 
given  him  to  make  his  livelihood  since  he  had  come  North. 
"  Men  wanted." 

He  touched  the  muscles  of  his  right  arm,  and  repeated 
"  Muscles  of  iron  and  a  heart  of  steel."  There  was  nothing 
said  on  the  sign  about  sculptors  and  artists  and  men  of 
talent,  and  poets  who  saw  visions,  and  young  ardent 
fellows  of  good  family,  who  thought  the  world  was  at  their 
feet;  but  it  did  say,  "Men  wanted."  Well,  he  was  a 
man,  at  any  rate.  He  accosted  a  fellow  who  passed  him 
whistling. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  a  chap  can  get  a  shave  in  this 
neighbourhood  ?  Any  barbers  hereabouts  ?  " 

The  other  grinned.  "  Every  feller  is  his  own  razor  in 
Nut  Street,  partner!  You  can  find  barber  shops  up- 
town." 

"I  want  to  get  a  wash-up,"  Fairfax  said,  smiling  on 
him  his  light  smile.  "  I  want  to  get  hold  of  a  towel  and 
some  soap." 

The  workman  pointed  across  the  street.  "  There's  a 
hotel.  They'll  fix  you  up." 

Fairfax  followed  the  man's  indication,  and  he  saw  the 
second  sign  that  hung  in  Nut  Street.  It  gave  the  modest 
information,  "  Rooms  and  board  three  dollars  a  week. 
Room  one  dollar  a  week.  All  at  Kenny's  fL"t-class  hotel. 


92  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Gents  only."  Of  the  proprietor  who  stood  in  the  doorway, 
and  whose  morning  toilet  had  gone  as  far  as  shirt  and 
trousers,  Antony  asked  — 

"  How  much  will  it  cost  me  to  wash-up  ?  I'd  like 
soap  and  a  towel  and  to  lie  down  on  a  bed  for  a  couple  of 
hours." 

The  Irish  hotel-keeper  looked  at  him.  Fairfax  took 
off  his  hat,  and  he  didn't  explain  himself  further. 

"Well,"  said  Patrick  Kenny,  "yez  don't  look  very 
dirthy.  Charge  fifteen  cents.  Pay  in  advance." 

"  Show  me  up,"  accepted  Fairfax,  and  put  the  last  of 
Bella's  charity  into  the  man's  hand. 


CHAPTER  III 

THAT  was  May.  Five  months  later,  when  the  Hudson 
flowed*  between  flaming  October  shores,  and  the  mists  of 
autumn  hung  like  a  golden  grail  on  the  air,  Fairfax  leaned 
out  of  the  window  of  the  engine-cab  and  cried  to  another 
man,  in  another  cab  on  the  opposite  track  — 

"  Hello,  Sanders ;  how's  your  health  ?  " 

It  was  the  slang  greeting  of  the  time.  The  engineer 
responded  that  he  was  fine  as  silk,  and  rang  his  bell  and 
passed  on  his  rolling  way. 

Fairfax  wore  a  red  shirt,  his  trousers  were  thick  with 
oil  and  grease.  His  collar,  open  at  the  neck,  showed  how 
finely  his  head  was  set  upon  his  shoulders,  and  left  free 
the  magnificent  column  of  his  throat.  Down  to  his  neck 
came  his  crisp  fair  hair,  just  curling  at  the  ends;  his 
sleeves  were  up  to  his  elbows  and  his  bare  arms  were 
dirty,  vigorous  and  powerful,  with  the  muscles  standing 
out  like  cords.  He  never  looked  at  his  hands  any  more, 
his  clever  sensitive  hands.  He  had  been  Joe  Mead's 
fireman  for  five  months,  a  record  ticket  for  Joe  Mead's 
cab.  Fairfax  had  borne  cursing  and  raging  from  his 
chief,  borne  them  with  equanimity,  feeding  into  the  belly 
of  his  engine  whatever  disgust  he  felt.  Thrown  together 
with  these  strange  men  of  a  different  class,  he  learned  new 
things  of  life,  and  at  first  he  was  as  amused  as  a  child  at 
play.  He  made  two  dollars  a  day.  This  amply  fed  him 
and  kept  him,  and  he  put  by,  with  a  miserliness  that  was 
out  of  all  keeping  with  his  temperament,  every  cent  he 
could  spare  from  the  necessities  of  life. 

Not  that  Fairfax  had  any  plans. 

From  the  first  opening  of  his  eyes  on  West  Albany, 
when  he  had  crawled  out  of  the  baggage  car  in  the  dawn, 
he  shut  out  his  past  from  himself.  He  crushed  back 

93 


94  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

even  his  own  identity.  He  earned  his  bread  by  the  sweat 
of  his  brow  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word,  and  for  what 
reason  he  saved  his  money  he  could  not  have  told.  He 
had  become  a  day  labourer,  a  fireman  on  the  New  York 
Central  road,  and  he  was  a  first-rate  hand.  His  figure  in 
the  rude,  dirty  clothes,  his  bowler  always  worn  on  the 
back  of  his  blonde  head,  his  limp  (that  big  boot  had  gone 
hard  with  him  on  the  day  that  he  applied  for  a  job  at  the 
boss's  office),  all  were  familiar  in  Nut  Street  by  this.  His 
voice,  his  smile,  his  rare  good  heart,  made  him  a  popular 
companion,  and  he  was,  too,  popular  with  the  women. 

His  miserable  reception  in  New  York,  the  bruises 
inflicted  upon  him  by  Cedersholm  and  his  uncle,  had 
embittered  Tony  Fairfax  to  an  extent  of  which  his  humble 
Nut  Street  friends  were  ignorant.  He  didn't  do  them  any 
harm,  however.  If  any  harm  were  done  at  all  —  and  there 
is  a  question  even  regarding  that  —  it  was  done  to  himself, 
for  he  crushed  down  his  ambitions,  he  thrust  them  out  of 
his  heart,  and  he  bit  the  dust  with  a  feeling  of  vengeance. 
He  had  been  a  gentleman  with  talent,  and  his  own  world 
had  not  wanted  him;  so  he  went  down  to  the  people. 
All  that  his  mother  knew  was  that  he  had  gone  on  to  the 
north  of  the  State,  to  perfect  certain  branches  of  his  art, 
and  that  it  was  better  for  him  to  be  in  Albany.  Eeclining 
under  the  vines,  she  read  his  letters,  smiling,  fanning 
herself  with  a  languid  hand. 

"  Emmy,  Master  Tony's  getting  on,  getting  on." 

"  Yas'm,  Mis'  Bella,  I  do  speck  he  is." 

"Listen,  Emmy."  And  Mrs.  Fairfax  would  read 
aloud  to  the  devoted  negro  the  letters  planned,  concocted, 
by  her  son  in  his  miserable  lodgings,  letters  which  cost 
him  the  keenest  pangs  of  his  life,  kind  and  tender  lines; 
things  he  would  have  done  if  he  could;  things  he  had 
hoped  for  and  knew  would  never  come  true ;  joys  he  meant 
to  bring  her  and  that  he  knew  she  would  grow  old  and 
never  see;  success  and  fame,  whose  very  sound  to  him 
now  was  like  the  knell  of  fate.  At  the  end  of  the  letter 
he  said  — 

"  I  am  studying  mechanics.  I  reckon  you'll  laugh  at 
me,  mother,  but  they  are  useful  to  a  sculptor." 

And  she  had  not  laughed  in  the  way  he  meant  as  she 
kissed  his  letter  and  wet  it  with  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  IV 

No  Sunday  duties  took  him  to  the  yards,  and  washed  and 
dressed,""  shaved  and  brushed,  he  became  a  beautiful  man 
of  the  world,  in  a  new  overcoat  and  a  new  sleek  hat, 
and  over  his  hands  thick  doeskin  gloves.  He  could  afford 
to  pay  for  his  clothes,  and  like  this  he  left  Nut  Street  every 
Sunday  at  nine  o'clock,  not  to  see  West  Albany  again 
till  midnight.  On  the  seventh  day  of  the  week  he  was 
a  mystery  to  his  chums  and  his  landlady,  and  if  any  one 
in  Nut  Street  had  had  time  to  be  suspicious  and  curious 
they  might  have  given  themselves  the  trouble  of  following 
Fairfax.  There  were  not  many  idlers,  however,  and  no 
saloons.  Drunkards  were  unwelcome,  and  Sunday  was 
a  day  of  rest  for  decent  hard  workers.  When  Antony,  in 
his  elegance,  came  out  he  used  to  pass  between  fathers 
of  families  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  if  it  were  warm  weather, 
and  between  complacent  couples,  and  many  of  the  hands 
slept  all  day.  The  most  curious  eyes  were  those  of  Molly 
Shannon,  the  girl  at  the  restaurant,  and  her  eyes  were 
more  than  curious. 

Fairfax  had  been  courteous  to  her,  bidding  her  good- 
morning  in  a  way  that  made  her  feel  as  though  she  were 
a  lady.  He  had  been  there  for  his  breakfast  and  lunch 
several  months  until  finally  Molly  Shannon  drove  him 
away.  This  she  did  not  do  by  her  boldness,  for  she  was 
not  bold,  but  by  her  comeliness  and  her  sex  and  her  smile. 
Fairfax  fed  his  Pride  in  his  savage  immolation  before  the 
monster  of  iron  and  steel;  by  his  slavery  to  work  he 
revenged  himself  upon  his  class.  His  Pride  grew;  he 
stood  up  against  Fate,  and  he  thought  he  was  doing  a 
very  fine  thing,  when  his  Pride  also  stood  up  in  the 
restaurant  when  he  took  his  cup  of  coffee  from  the  red- 
handed  girl  of  the  people,  pretty  Molly  Shannon  from 

95 


96  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Killarney.  Fairfax  went  farther  up  the  street.  He  found 
another  eating  house,  and  later  ate  his  sandwich  on  his 
knees  at  noon  in  the  cab  of  his  engine. 

When  Molly  Shannon  found  that  he  was  not  coming 
there  for  his  coffee  any  more,  she  grew  listless,  and  doled 
out  food  to  the  other  men  with  a  lack  of  science  and  interest 
that  won  her  sharp  reproofs  and  coarse  jokes.  From  her 
window  over  the  restaurant  she  watched  Mister  Fairfax 
as  every  Sunday  he  went  limping  up  the  street.  Molly 
watched  him,  her  breast  palpitating  under  -the  common 
shirtwaist,  and  the  freckles  on  the  milky  white  skin  died 
out  under  the  red  that  rose. 

"  He's  got  a  girl,"  she  reflected ;  "  sure,  he's  got  a  girl." 

One  Sunday  in  October,  a  day  of  yellow  sunlight  and 
autumn  air,  when  Nut  Street  and  the  yards  and  West 
Albany  fringed  the  country  like  the  hem  of  an  ugly 
garment,  Molly  came  down  and  out  into  the  street,  and 
at  a  distance  she  followed  Fairfax.  Fairfax  cut  down  a 
couple  of  blocks  further  on  to  the  main  station.  He  went 
in  and  bought  a  ticket  for  Albany.  He  boarded  the  cars, 
and  Molly  followed. 

She  tracked  him  at  a  safe  distance  up  Market  Street 
to  Eagle,  and  the  young  man  walked  so  slowly  that  it  was 
easy  to  keep  him  in  sight.  The  man  pursued  by  the  Irish 
girl  suggested  nothing  less  than  a  New  York  Central 
fireman.  He  looked  like  any  other  well-set-up,  well-made 
young  gentleman  out  on  a  Sunday  morning.  In  his 
fashionable  coat,  his  fashionable  hat,  Molly  saw  him  go 
through  the  doors  of  a  stone  church  whose  bells  rang 
solemnly  on  the  October  air. 

The  girl  was  very  much  surprised. 

She  felt  him  safe  even  within  the  walls  of  the  heathen 
church,  and  she  went  directly  back  to  Nut  Street,  her 
holiday  hanging  heavy  on  her  hands,  and  she  went  in  and 
helped  her  patron  wash  the  dishes,  and  upstairs  that  night 
she  stopped  in  her  simple  preparations  for  bed  and 
reddened. 

"  Sure,  ain't  I  a  silly !  He's  went  to  church  to  meet 
his  girl ! " 

Her  morning's  outing,  the  tramp  and  the  excitement, 
were  an  unusual  strain  to  Molly,  not  to  speak  of  her 
emotions,  and  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  97 

Fairfax  sat  every  Sunday  in  the  same  pew.  The  seat 
was  to  the  left  of  the  altar,  and  he  sang  with  an  ardour 
and  a  mellowness  that  was  lost  neither  on  the  people  near 
him  nor  on  the  choir-master.  All  arts  were  sympathetic 
to  him:  his  ear  was  good  ami  his  voice  agreeable.  His 
youth,  his  sacrifice,  his  dying  art  he  put  into  his  church 
singing,  and  once  the  choir-master,  who  had  taken  pains 
to  mark  him,  stopped  him  in  the  vestibule  and  spoke  to 
him. 

"  No,"  Fairfax  said,  "  I  am  not  a  musician.  Don't 
know  one  note  from  another,  and  can't  learn.  Only  sing 
by  ear,  and  not  very  sure  at  that !  " 

He  listened  indifferently.  As  the  gentleman  spoke  of 
art  and  success,  over  Antony's  handsome  mouth  there 
flitted  a  smile  that  had  something  of  iron  in  it. 

"  I  don't  care  for  any  of  those  things,  sir,"  he  replied. 
"  I  reckon  I'm  a  barbarian,  a  rudimentary  sort  of  man." 

He  took  a  certain  pride  and  glory  in  his  station  as  he 
talked.  There  was  a  fascination  in  puzzling  this  mild, 
charming  man,  one  of  his  own  class,  whose  very  voice  and 
accent  were  a  relief  after  the  conversations  he  heard  daily. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I  happen  to  be  a  fireman  in  the 
New  York  Central  yards  down  at  West  Albany." 

The  quiet  choir-master  stared  at  him.  "  Oh,  come, 
come !  "  he  smiled. 

Fairfax  thrust  his  cane  under  his  arm,  drew  off  his 
glove,  and  held  out  his  hand,  looking  into  the  other  man's 
eyes.  The  musician's  hand  closed  over  Fairfax's. 

"  My  dear  young  fellow,"  he  said  gravely,  "  you  are 
a  terrible  loss  to  art.  You  would  make  your  way  in  the 
musical  world." 

Fairfax  laughed  outright,  and  the  choir-master 
watched  him  as  others  did  as  he  limped  away,  his  broad, 
fine  back,  his  straight  figure,  and  Fairfax's  voice  swelling 
out  in  the  processional  came  to  the  musician's  mind. 

"  There  is  a  mystery  about  that  chap,"  he  thought. 
"  He  is  a  gentleman.  The  Bishop  would  be  interested." 

By  contrast  Sundays  were  delightful  to  Antony. 
Amusements  possible  to  a  workingman  with  the  tastes  of 
a  gentleman  were  difficult  to  obtain.  Church  in  the 
morning,  a  lazy  stroll  through  the  town,  an  excellent 
dinner  at  the  Delavan  House,  set  Fairfax  up  for  the  week. 


98  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

The  coloured  waiter  thought  his  new  patron  was  a 
Southerner,  and  suspected  him  of  being  a  millionaire. 

"  Yass,  sar,  Mr.  Kunnell  Fairfax,  sar." 

Antony,  in  a  moment  of  heart  hunger  for  the  South, 
had  told  George  Washington  his  name.  George  Washing- 
ton kept  the  same  place  for  him  every  Sunday,  and 
polished  the  stone  china  plates  till  they  glistened,  dis- 
played for  Antony  all  his  dazzling  teeth,  bowed  himself 
double,  his  napkin  under  his  arm,  and  addressed  Antony 
as  "  Kunnell " ;  and  Antony  over  his  dessert  laughed  in 
his  sleeve  (he  took  great  pains  to  keep  his  hands  out  of 
sight).  After  luncheon  he  smoked  and  read  the  papers  in 
the  lobby,  lounged  about,  wrote  a  Sunday  letter  to  his 
mother,  and  then  loitered  about  through  old  Albany. 
On  Sunday  afternoons  when  it  was  fine,  he  would  choose 
School  Street  and  the  Cathedral  close,  and  now,  under 
the  falling  of  the  yellow  leaves  there  was  a  beauty  in  the 
day's  end  that  thrilled  him  hour  by  hour.  He  made 
these  pilgrimages  to  keep  himself  from  thinking,  from 
dreaming,  from  suffering;  to  keep  his  hands  from  pencil 
and  design ;  to  keep  his  artist  soul  from  crying  out  aloud ; 
to  keep  his  talent  from  demanding,  like  a  starving  thing, 
bread  that  he  had  no  means  to  give.  Sometimes,  however, 
—  sometimes,  when  the  stimulus  of  an  excellent  dinner,  and 
a  restful  morning,  when  the  cheer  of  George  Washington's 
droll  devotion  had  died,  then  the  young  man's  step  would 
lag  in  the  streets  of  Albany,  and  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back  and  his  bright  head  bowed,  he  would  creep  musing, 
half-seeing  where  he  went. 

Taking  advantage  of  his  lassitude,  like  peris  whose  wings 
had  been  folded  against  Paradise,  and  whose  forms  had 
been  leaning  hard  against  the  gate,  his  ideals,  his  visions, 
would  rush  in  upon  him,  and  he  would  nearly  sink  under 
the  beating  of  their  wings  —  under  their  voluptuous  appeal, 
under  their  imperious  demand. 

On  these  occasions  Fairfax  would  go  home  oppressed, 
and  content  himself  with  a  glass  of  milk  and  light  food  at 
the  restaurant,  and  dressed  as  he  was  even  to  the  hat  on 
his  head,  he  would  sink  by  the  table  in  his  little  room  and 
bury  his  face  in  his  hands.  Then  he  would  count  up  his 
money.  Working  from  May  until  October,  he  had  saved 
only  fifty  dollars.  After  his  calculations  there  was  no 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  99 

magnitude  in  the  sum  to  inspire  him  to  new  plans  or  to 
tempt  him  to  make  a  fresh  venture  for  art.  He  often 
thought,  in  looking  back  on  those  days,  that  it  was  nothing 
but  his  pride  and  his  obstinacy  that  kept  him  there.  The 
memory  of  his  winter's  creations,  of  his  work  in  the  studio, 
and  his  beasts  with  their  powerful  bodies  and  their  bronze 
beauty,  came  upon  him  always  with  such  cruel  resentment 
and  made  him  feel  so  impotent  against  the  injustice  of  the 
great,  that  if  drink  had  tempted  Fairfax  he  would  have 
gone  to  the  nearest  saloon  and  made  a  beast  of  himself. 

The  working  hours  were  long  and  his  employment 
physic/ally  exhausting,  but  he  embraced  his  duties  and  fell 
in  love  with  the  great  steel  and  iron  creature  which  it  was 
his  work  to  feed  and  clean  and  oil.  And  when  he  left  his 
engine  silent  in  the  shed,  the  roar  and  the  motion  absent, 
tranquil,  breathless,  and  yet  superb,  Antony  left  his 
machine  with  regret,  the  regret  of  a  lover  for  his  mistress. 
He  was  fireman  to  a  wild-cat  engineer. 


CHAPTEE  Y 

FAIRFAX,  used  to  the  Southern  climate,  found  no  fault 
with  the  heat  of  summer,  bone-racking  and  blood-boiling 
though  it  was;  but,  remembering  his  past  experience  of 
winds  and  snow  in  January,  he  wondered  how  winter 
would  seem  in  the  yards,  endured  in  the  cab  of  the 
engine,  but  his  toil  had  now  toughened  him,  roughened 
him,  and  strengthened  his  heart  of  steel.  November, 
with  its  Indian  summer  smoothness,  with  its  fine,  glorious 
light  that  glowed  over  West  Albany,  passed,  and  the  year 
went  out  in  beauty  and  December  followed,  still  windless 
and  mild.  But  that  was  the  last  touch  of  mercy.  January 
rushed  down  upon  them,  fierce,  tempestuous,  and  up  and 
down  the  yards,  from  his  window,  Fairfax  watched  the 
whirling  shrouds  of  snow  sweep  over  the  ground,  cover 
the  tracks,  and  through  the  veil  the  lights  flickered  like 
candles  that  the  snuffers  of  the  storm  were  vainly  trying 
to  extinguish.  He  put  on  an  extra  flannel  shirt  under 
his  red  shirt;  he  buttoned  his  vest  high,  got  into  his  coat, 
jammed  his  hat  on  fiercely  and  shook  himself  like  a 
reluctant  dog  before  going  to  his  work.  Under  his  window 
he  could  hear  the  soughing  of  the  wind  and  it  sucked 
under  the  door ;  he  was  sure  that  he  would  never  be  warm 
here  again. 

"  Jove ! "  he  thought,  "  there  will  be  two  inches  of 
snow  inside  my  window  when  I  get  back  at  midnight." 
He  drove  his  razor  into  the  crack  to  stiffen  the  casement, 
and  took  an  old  flannel  shirt  and  laid  it  along  the  ledge. 
As  he  did  so  the  storm  blew  a  whirl  of  snow  across  the 
pane. 

"  Siberia/'  he  muttered  to  himself ;  "  don't  talk  to  me 
about  Russia.  This  is  far  enough  North  for  me !  " 

He  could  not  have  said  why  the  thought  of  the  children 

100 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  101 

came,  but  its  spirit  came  back  to  him.  For  months  he  had 
fiercely  thrust  out  every  memory  of  the  children,  but 
to-night,  as  the  wind  struck  him,  he  thought  of  their 
games  and  the  last  time  they  had  played  that  romp- 
ing sport  together.  Like  a  warm  garment  to  shield  him 
against  the  cold  he  was  just  going  to  fight,  he  seemed  to 
feel  Bella's  arms  around  his  neck«as  they  had  clung  whilst 
he  rushed  with  her  through  the  hall.  It  was  just  a  year 
ago  that  he  had  arrived  in  the  unfriendly  city  of  his 
kinsmen,  and  as  he  thought  of  them,  going  down  the 
narrow^dark  stairs  of  the  shanty  hotel,  strangely  enough 
it  waS  "not  the  icy  welcome  that  he  remembered,  but 
Bella  —  Bella  in  her  corner  with  her  book,  Bella  with  her 
bright  red  dress,  Bella  with  her  dancing  eyes  and  her 
eager  face. 

"  You've  got  an  awfully  light  smile,  Cousin  Antony." 

The  door  of  the  hotel  eating-room  was  open  and  dimly 
lighted.  Kenny  and  his  wife  were  talking  before  the 
stove.  They  heard  their  lodger's  step  —  a  unique  step  in 
the  house  —  and  the  woman,  who  would  have  gone  down 
on  her  knees  and  blacked  his  big  boot  and  the  smaller 
boot,  called  out  to  him  — 

"  Ah,  don't  yez  go  out  unless  ye  have  a  cup  of  hot 
coffee,  Misther  Fairfax.  It's  biting  cold.  Come  on  in 
now." 

Kenny's  was  a  temperance  hotel,  obliged  to  be  by  the 
railroad.  There  were  two  others  in  the  room  besides  the 
landlady  and  Kenny:  Sanders  and  Molly  Shannon. 
They  sat  together  by  the  stove.  As  Fairfax  came  in 
Molly  drew  her  chair  away  from  the  engineer.  Fairfax 
accepted  gratefully  Mrs.  Kenny's  suggestion  of  hot  coffee, 
and  while  she  busied  herself  in  getting  it  for  him,  he  sat 
down. 

"  Running  out  at  eight,  Sanders  ?  " 

"You  bet,"  said  the  other  shortly.  "New  York 
Central  don't  change  its  schedule  for  the  weather." 

Sanders  was  suspicious  regarding  Fairfax  and  the 
girl,  not  that  the  fireman  paid  the  least  attention  to  Molly 
Shannon,  but  she  had  changed  in  her  attitude  to  all  her 
old  friends  since  the  new-comer  first  drank  a  cup  of  coffee 
in  Sheedy's.  Sanders  had  asked  Molly  to  marry  him 
every  Sunday  since  spring,  and  he  firmly  believed  that  if 


102  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

he  had  begun  his  demands  the  Sunday  before  Fairfax 
appeared,  the  girl  would  be  Mrs.  Sanders  now. 

Molly  wore  a  red  merino  dress.  According  to  the 
fashio'n  of  the  time  it  fitted  her  closely  like  a  glove.  Its 
lines  revealed  every  curve  of  her  young,  shapely  figure, 
and  the  red  dress  stopped  short  at  the  dazzling  whiteness 
of  her  neck.  Her  skin,  and  colouring  were  Irish,  coral- 
like  and  pure.  Her  hair  was  auburn  and  the  vivid  tint 
of  her  costume  was  an  unfortunate  contrast;  but  her 
grey  eyes  with  black  flecks  in  them  and  long  black  lashes, 
her  piquant  nose  and  dimples,  brought  back  the  artistic 
mistake,  as  the  French  say.  She  was  too  girlish,  too 
young,  too  pretty  not  to  score  high  above  her  dreadful 
dress. 

Fairfax,  who  knew  why  he  did  not  eat  at  the  coffee- 
house any  more,  looked  at  the  reason,  and  the  artist  in 
him  and  the  man  simultaneously  regarded  the  Irish  girl. 

"  Somebody's  got  on  a  new  frock/'  he  said.  "  Did 
you  make  it,  Miss  Molly  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  she  answered,  without  lifting  her  eyes,  and 
went  all  red  from  her  dress  to  her  hair. 

Fairfax  drank  the  hot  coffee  and  felt  the  warmth  at 
his  heart.  He  heard  Sanders  say  under  his  breath  — 

"Why,  I  bet  you  could  make  anything,  Molly,  you're 
so  smart.  Now  I  have  a  rip  in  my  coat  here;  if  Mrs. 
Kenny  has  a  needle  will  you  be  a  good  girl  and  mend  it  ?  " 

And  Fairfax  heard  her  say,  "  Sanders,  leave  me  be." 

Since  Sanders  had  cooled  to  him,  Fairfax  took  special 
pains  to  be  friendly,  for  his  pride  shrank  against  having 
any  jars  here  in  these  quarters.  He  could  not  bear  the 
idea  of  a  disagreement  with  these  people  with  whom  he 
was  playing  a  false  part.  He  took  out  a  couple  of  excellent 
cigars  from  his  waistcoat  and  gave  one  to  Kenny,  who 
stood  picking  his  teeth  in  the  doorway. 

"  Thank  you,  Mister  Fairfax.  For  a  felly  who  don't 
smoke,  ye  smoke  the  best  cigars." 

Sanders  refused  shortly,  and  as  the  whistle  of  an  engine 
was  heard  above  the  fierce  cry  of  the  storm,  he  rose.  He 
took  the  eight  o'clock  express  from  Albany  to  New  York. 
He  left  all  his  work  to  his  fireman,  jumping  on  his  loco- 
motive at  the  last  moment,  always  hanging  round  Molly 
Shannon  till  she  shook  him  off  like  a  burr.  Fairfax  put 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  103 

the  discarded  cigar  back  in  his  pocket.  He  was  not  due 
for  some  twenty  minutes  at  the  engine-house,  and  Sanders, 
gloomily  considering  his  rival,  was  certain  that  Fairfax 
intended  remaining  behind  with  the  girl.  Indeed, 
Antony's  impulse  to  do  just  this  thing  was  strong.  He 
was  tempted  to  take  Sanders'  chair  and  sit  down  by 
Molly.  She  remained  quietly,  her  eyes  downcast,  twisting 
her  handkerchief,  which  she  rolled  and  unrolled.  Mrs. 
Kenny  cleared  away  the  dishes,  her  husband  lit  his  cigar 
and  beamed.  Sanders  got  his  hat  off  the  hook,  put  on 
his  coat  slowly,  the  cloud  black  on  his  face.  Fairfax 
wanted  to  make  the  girl  lift  her  eyes  to  him,  he  wanted  to 
look  into  those  grey  eyes  with  the  little  black  flecks  along 
the  iris.  As  the  language  of  the  street  went,  Molly  was 
crazy  about  him.  He  wanted  to  feel  the  sensation  that 
her  lifted  lashes  and  her  Irish  eyes  would  bring.  Tempta- 
tions are  all  of  one  kind;  there  are  no  different  kinds. 
What  they  are  and  where  they  lead  depends  upon  the 
person  to  whom  they  come. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Sanders,  shortly.  "  Give  up  the 
door,  Kenny,  will  you  ?  You're  not  a  ghost." 

"  I'm  going  with  you,  Sanders,"  Fairfax  said ;  "  hold 
on  a  bit." 

Sanders'  heart  bounded  and  his  whole  expression 
changed.  He  growled  — 

'"What  are  you  going  for?  You're  not  due.  It's  cold 
as  hell  down  in  the  yards." 

Fairfax  was  looking  at  Molly  and  instinctively  she 
raised  her  head  and  her  eyes. 

"  Better  give  this  cigar  to  your  fireman,  Sandy," 
Fairfax  said  to  him  as  the  two  men  buttoned  up  their 
coats  and  bent  against  the  January  wind. 

"  All  right,"  muttered  the  other  graciously,  "  give  it 
over  here.  Ain't  this  the  deuce  of  a  night?  " 

The  wind  went  down  Sandy's  throat  and  neither  man 
spoke  again.  They  parted  at  the  yards,  and  Sanders 
went  across  the  track  where  his  fireman  waited  for  him 
on  his  engine,  and  Fairfax  went  to  the  engine-house  and 
found  his  legitimate  mistress,  his  steel  and  iron  friend, 
with  whom  he  was  not  forbidden  by  common-sense  to 
play. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BY  the  time  he  reached  the  engine-house  he  was  white 
with  snow,  and  wet  and  warm.  There  was  no  heating  in 
the  sheds  where  the  locomotives  waited  for  their  firemen, 
and  the  snow  and  wind  beat  in,  and  on  the  cow-catchers 
of  the  two  in  line  was  a  fringe  of  white  like  the  embroidery 
on  a  woman's  dress.  The  gas  lamps  lit  the  big  place 
insufficiently,  and  the  storm  whistled  through  the  thin 
wooden  shed. 

Number  Ten  at  the  side  of  Antony's  engine  was  the 
midnight  express  locomotive,  to  be  hitched  at  West 
Albany  to  the  Far  West  Limited.  His  own,  Number 
Forty-one,  was  smaller,  less  powerful,  more  slender, 
graceful,  more  feminine,  and  Antony  kept  it  shining  and 
gleaming  and  lustreful.  It  was  his  pride  to  regard  it  as  a 
living  thing.  Love  was  essential  to  any  work  he  did; 
he  did  not  understand  toil  without  it,  and  he  cared  for 
his  locomotive  with  enthusiasm. 

He  did  not  draw  out  for  half  an  hour.  His  machine 
was  in  perfect  order;  the  fire  had  already  been  started 
by  one  of  the  shed  firemen,  and  Fairfax  shook  down  the 
coals  and  prepared  to  get  up  steam.  They  were  scheduled 
to  leave  West  Albany  at  nine  and  carry  a  freight  train 
into  the  State  as  far  as  Utica.  He  would  be  in  the  train 
till  dawn.  It  was  his  first  night's  work  in  several  weeks, 
and  the  first  ever  in  a  temperature  like  this.  Since  morn- 
ing the  thermometer  had  fallen  twenty  points. 

His  thoughts  kindled  as  his  fire  kindled  —  a  red  dress 
flashed  before  his  eyes.  Sometimes  it  was  vivid  scarlet, 
too  vivid  and  too  violent,  then  it  changed  to  a  warm 
crimson,  and  Bella's  head  was  dark  above  it.  But  the 
vision  of  the  child  was  too  young  to  hold  Antonv,  now 
desirous  and  gloomy.  His  point  of  view  had  changed 

104 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  105 

and  his  face  set  as  he  worked  about  in  the  cab  and  his 
adjustable  lamp  cast  its  light  upon  a  face  that  was  grave 
and  stern. 

He  hummed  under  his  breath  the  different  things  as 
they  came  to  him. 

"  J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle." 

Dear  old  Professor  Dufaucon,  with  his  yellow  goatee 
and  his  broken  English.  And  the  magnolias  were 
blooming  in  the  yard,  for  the  professor  lived  on  the 
veranda  and  liked  the  open  air,  and  in  the  spring  there 
were  the  nightingales. 

"  J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle." 

"  First  catch  your  hare/'  Antony  said.  "  I  have  never 
had  a  turtle-dove,  never  had  a  sweetheart  since  I  fell  from 
the  cherry-tree." 

Sounds  that  were  now  familiar  to  him  came  from  out- 
side, the  ringing  of  the  bells  as  the  locomotives  drew 
through  the  storm,  the  high  scream  of  the  whistles,  the 
roll  and  rumble  of  the  wheels  and  the  calling  of  the 
employer  to  the  railroad  hands  as  they  passed  to  their 
duties  outside  the  shed.  Fairfax  left  Louisiana  and 
stopped  singing.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  his  furnace, 
and  the  water  hissed  and  bubbled  in  the  boiler.  He  opened 
the  cock  and  the  escaping  steam  filled  the  engine-house  and 
mixed  with  the  damp  air. 

Looking  through  the  window  of  the  cab,  Fairfax  saw 
a  figure  pass  in  under  the  shed.  It  was  a  woman  with  a 
shawl  over  her  head.  He  climbed  down  out  of  the  cab; 
the  woman  threw  the  shawl  back,  he  saw  the  head  and  dress. 

"  Why,  Miss  Molly !  "  he  exclaimed.  He  thought  she 
had  come  for  Sanders. 

She  held  out  a  yellow  envelope,  but  even  though  she 
knew  she  brought  him  news  and  that  he  would  not  think 
of  her,  her  big  eyes  fastened  on  him  were  eloquent. 
Fairfax  did  not  answer  their  appeal.  He  tore  open  the 
telegram. 

"  I  brought  it  myself,"  she  murmured.  "  I  hope  it 
ain't  bad  news." 

He  tore  it  open  with  hands  stained  with  grease  and 
oil.  He  read  it  in  the  light  of  his  cab  lamp,  read  it  twice, 
and  a  man  who  was  hanging  around  for  a  job  felt  the  fire- 
man of  Number  Forty-one  grasp  his  arm. 


106  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  Tell  Joe  Mead  to  take  you  to-night  to  fire  for  him  — 
tell  him  I've  got  bad  news.  I'm  going  to  New  York." 

"  It's  too  bad,"  said  the  other  cheerfully.     "  I'll  tell  him." 

Fairfax  had  gone  flying  on  his  well  foot  and  his  lame 
foot  like  a  jackdaw.  He  was  out  of  the  shed  without  a 
word  to  Molly  Shannon. 

"  Your  felly's  got  bad  news/'  said  the  man,  and,  keenly 
delighted  with  his  sudden  luck,  climbed  agilely  into  the 
cab  of  Number  Forty-one,  and,  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
looked  down  on  Molly. 

"  He  ain't  my  felly,"  she  responded  heavily,  "  he  boards 
to  Kenny's.  I  just  brought  him  the  despatch,  but  I  think 
it's  bad  news,  sure  enough." 

And  wrapping  the  shawl  closer  over  her  head,  she 
passed  out  into  the  storm  whose  fringe  was  deepening  on 
the  cow-catchers  of  Number  Ten  and  Number  Forty-one. 

Sanders'  big  locomotive  ran  in  from  the  side  to  the 
main  track  as  smoothly  as  oil,  and  backed  up  the  line  to 
the  cars  of  the  night  mail.  Sanders  was  to  start  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  it  was  a  minute  before  the  hour.  The 
ringing  of  his  bell  and  the  hiss  of  the  steam  were  in  his 
ears.  He  was  just  about  to  open  the  throttle  when  a 
voice  on  the  other  side  called  to  him,  and  Fairfax  climbed 
up  into  the  cab. 

"  Take  me  in,  Sanders,  old  man ;  let  me  hang  on  here, 
will  you  ?  I've  got  to  get  to  New  York  as  fast  as  you  can 
take  me." 

Sanders  nodded,  the  station  signal  had  been  given. 
He  started  out,  and  Antony  made  himself  as  small  as 
possible  in  the  only  available  place  between  the  fireman, 
who  was  one  of  his  special  pals,  and  the  engineer.  Sanders' 
face  was  towards  his  valves  and  brakes.  He  pulled  out 
into  the  driving  sleet,  scanning  the  tracks  under  the  search- 
light. 

"  What's  up,  Tony  ?  "  the  fireman  at  his  side  asked  him 
as  they  rolled  out  into  the  night  to  the  ringing  of  the  bell. 
Fairfax  handed  him  his  despatch  and  the  fireman  read  it, 
and  Fairfax  answered  him  — 

"  A  little  cousin.  One  of  my  little  cousins.  What  time 
are  we  due  in  New  York  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  past  midnight  when  Antony  rushed  out  of  the 
Forty-second  Street  station  into  a  blizzard  of  sleet  and 
snow.  He  stood  a  second  looking  up  and  down  Madison 
Avenue,  searching  vainly  for  a  car.  There  were  no  cabs 
at  the  station,  there  was  nothing  in  sight  but  the  blinding 
storm,  and  he  began  on  foot  to  battle  his  way  with  the 
elements.  It  had  been  snowing  in  New  York  for  twelve 
hours.  The  same  fierce  challenge  met  him  that  he  had 
received  the  year  before,  and  he  pushed  his  way  through 
the  dim  streets  where  the  storm  veils  wrapped  the  gas 
lamps  like  shrouds.  He  had  been  on  duty  since  six  that 
morning,  except  for  a  few  hours  in  the  afternoon.  Every 
now  and  then  he  had  to  stop  for  breath  and  to  shake  the 
weight  of  snow  off  his  collar.  He  was  white  as  wool. 
The  houses  on  either  side  were  dark  with  a  stray  light 
here  and  there,  but  he  knew  that  farther  on  he  should 
find  one  house  lit  with  the  light  that  burns  for  watchers. 
He  glowed  like  a  gladiator,  panted  like  a  runner,  and  he 
reached  the  door  and  leaned  for  breath  and  waited  for  an 
answer  to  his  ring.  Like  a  gladiator !  How  he  had 
mouthed  Spartacus  for  them!  He  could  see  the  dancing 
eyes,  and  little  Gardiner  touched  the  muscles  of  his  arm. 

"  Feel  mine,  Cousin  Antony." 

Heart  of  steel !     Well,  he  would  need  it  now. 

The  door  was  opened,  he  never  knew  by  whom,  and 
a  silence  met  him  that  was  profound  after  the  voices  of 
the  storm.  He  stamped  his  feet  and  shook  off  the  drift 
from  without,  threw  off  his  coat,  caked  thick  and  fairly 
rattling  with  its  burden,  threw  off  his  hat,  heavy  and 
dripping,  and  as  he  was,  his  heart  of  steel  beating  in  him 
like  a  tender  human  heart,  he  limped  up  the  quiet  stairs. 
Even  then  he  noticed  that  there  were  signs  of  a  feast 

107 


108  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

in  the  house.  It  should  have  been  the  annual  dinner  of 
Mr.  Carew.  The  odours  of  flowers  that  had  died  were 
sickening  in  the  heat.  Smilax  twisted  around  the  balus- 
trade of  the  stairs  met  his  work-stained  hand  that  trembled 
in  the  leaves.  On  the  second  floor,  some  one,  he  was  not 
clear,  but  afterwards  he  thought  it  must  have  been  Miss 
Eulalie,  met  him  and  took  him  in. 

In  the  feeble  sick-room  light,  grouped  a  few  people 
whose  forms  and  faces  go  to  make  part  of  the  sombre 
pictures  of  watchers;  that  group  in  which  at  some  time 
or  other  each  inhabitant  of  the  world  takes  his  place. 
There  was  one  kneeling  figure;  the  others  stood  round 
the  bed.  The  little  bark,  quite  big  enough  to  carry  such  a 
small  freight  thus  far  on  the  voyage,  was  nearly  into  port. 

Bella  lay  close  to  her  little  brother,  her  dark  hair  and 
dress  the  only  shadow  on  the  white  bed  covers.  Gardiner's 
hair  was  brushed  back  from  his  brow,  he  looked  older, 
but  still  very  small  to  go  so  far  alone.  Gardiner  was 
travelling,  travelling  —  climbing  steep  mountains,  white 
with  snow,  and  his  breath  came  in  short  laboured  sighs, 
fast,  fast  —  it  was  the  only  sound  in  the  room.  Bella 
had  not  left  his  side  for  hours,  her  cheek  pressed  the  pillow 
by  his  restless  head.  Her  tears  had  fallen  and  dried, 
fallen  and  dried.  Bella  alone  knew  what  Gardiner  tried 
to  say.  His  faltering  words,  his  halting  English,  were 
familiar  to  the  sister  and  she  interpreted  to  the  others, 
to  whom  Gardiner,  too  small  to  reach  them,  had  never 
been  very  near.  Twenty  times  the  kneeling  figure  had 
asked  — 

"  What  does  he  say,  Bella  ?    What  does  he  want  ?  " 

"He  thinks  it  is  a  game,"  the  little  sister  said;  "he 
says  it's  cold,  he  says  he  wants  Cousin  Antony." 

Since  his  summons,  when  Gardiner  found  that  he  must 
gird  his  little  loins  for  the  journey,  his  mind  had  gone 
to  the  big  cousin  who  had  so  triumphantly  carried  him 
over  the  imaginary  steeps. 

From  the  door,  where  he  had  been  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  group,  a  tall  figure  in  a  red  flannel  shirt  came 
forward,  bent  down,  and  before  any  one  knew  that  he  had 
come,  or  who  he  was,  he  was  speaking  to  the  sick  child. 

"  Gardiner,  little  cousin,  here's  your  old  cousin  Antony 
come  back." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  109 

Gardiner  was  travelling  hard,  but  his  head  stopped  its 
restless  turning.  He  looked  up  into  the  beloved  face, 
whose  smile  shone  on  him  and  lit  his  dark  journey. 
Gardiner  tried  to  answer  the  brightness  of  that  smile, 
he  tried  to  hold  out  his  little  arms.  In  a  sob  Bella 
whispered  — 

"  He  wants  Cousin  Antony  to  carry  him." 
Without  removing  his  look  of  tender  brightness  from 
the  traveller's  face,  Fairfax  murmured  — 

"  I  reckon  I'll  take  him  in  my  arms,  Aunt  Caroline/' 

And  as  the  steepest,  coldest  place  came  in  sight  to  little 

Gardiner,  he  was  lifted  in  a  warm  embrace.     He  opened  his 

eyes  upon  Antony's  and  with  a  radiant  look  gave  up  the 

painful  climbing  to  the  rescuer. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FAIRFAX  himself  made  many  cruel  Siberian  journeys  and 
voyages  through  hellish  tropics,  on  his  own  narrow  bed 
in  the  hall  room  overlooking  the  New  York  Central  yards. 
He  had  something  close  to  pneumonia  and  turned  and 
cried  out  on  his  bed,  too  small  for  his  big  form,  and  in  his 
delirium  he  kicked  away  the  footboard.  His  uncle's 
house,  which  he  had  left  as  brusquely  this  time  as  before, 
haunted  him  in  his  mind  troubled  by  sickness.  He  cried 
out  that  it  was  a  cursed  place  and  that  Gardiner  had  been 
killed  by  neglect,  and  that  he  shook  the  dust  of  New  York 
from  his  feet.  From  wild  blue  eyes  that  flamed  under  his 
hair  grown  long,  he  stared  into  the  space  peopled  by 
delirium  and  called  his  solitary  attendant  "  Bella,"  and 
begged  her  to  come  away  with  him  before  it  was  too  late, 
for,  as  many  sick  people  seem  to  be,  he  was  travelling. 
In  his  case  he  journeyed  back  to  his  boarding-house  and 
laid  his  visions  down  and  waked  up  in  the  same  old  world 
that  had  treated  him  badly,  but  which  he  was  not  ready 
to  leave. 

It  was  a  sunny,  brilliant  January  day.  The  snow  had 
frozen  on  his  window  and  the  light  played  upon  gleaming 
bands,  and  through  the  dingy  yellow  shade  the  sunlight 
came  determinedly.  On  the  table  by  his  bedside  were  his 
medicines  and  milk,  and  he  was  covered  by  counterpanes 
lent  by  the  other  lodgers. 

He  felt  the  perspiration  pour  off  him  as  his  mind  found 
its  balance,  and  he  saw  how  weak  he  was;  but  though 
it  hurt  him  to  breathe,  he  could  do  so,  and  the  crisis  was 
past.  He  had  fallen  on  his  bed  when  he  came  from 
New  York  and  here  he  had  remained.  He  wet  his 
cracked  lips,  said  "Water,"  and  from  behind  him,  where 
she  had  been  sitting,  a  girl  came  and  held  a  glass  to  his 

110 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  HI 

lips.  Fairfax  drank,  closed  his  eyes,  made  no  sign  of 
recognition,  for  he  knew  Molly  Shannon.  She  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  brow  and  face  tenderly,  and  though  her 
hand  had  not  trembled  before  in  her  ministrations,  it 
trembled  now.  Her  heart  was  beating  with  gratitude  for 
she  knew  he  was  saved.  She  gave  him  milk  and  brandy, 
after  a  few  moments,  then  sat  down  to  her  work.  Fairfax, 
speaking  each  word  distinctly,  said  — 

"  I  reckon  I've  been  pretty  sick,  haven't  I  ?  " 
"  You're  all  right  now,  Misther  Fairfax." 
He  smiled  faintly.  He  was  indifferent,  very  weak,  but 
he  felt  a  kind  of  mild  happiness  steal  over  him  as  he  lay 
there,  a  sense  of  being  looked  after,  cared  for,  and  of  having 
beaten  the  enemy  which  had  clutched  his  throat  and  chest. 
He  heard  the  voices  of  Molly  and  the  doctor,  heard  her 
pretty  Irish  accent,  half-opened  his  eyes  and  saw  her  hat 
and  plaid  red-and-black  shawl  hanging  by  the  window. 
The  plaid  danced  before  his  eyes,  became  a  signal  flag,  and, 
watching  it,  he  drowsed  and  then  fell  into  the  profound 
sleep  which  means  recovery. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

FAIRFAX  took  Molly  Shannon's  presence  for  granted, 
accepted  her  services,  obeyed  her  docilely  and  thanked 
her  with  his  smile  which  regained  its  old  radiance  as  he 
grew  stronger.  Lying  shaven,  with  his  hair  cut  at  last  — 
for  she  had  listened  to  his  pleading  and  sent  for  a  barber  — 
in  clean  sheets  and  jacket,  he  looked  boyish  and  thin, 
and  to  the  Irish  girl  he  was  beautiful.  She  kept  her  eyes 
from  him  for  fear  that  he  should  see  her  passion  and  her 
adoration,  and  she  effaced  herself  in  the  nurse,  the  mother, 
the  sister,  in  the  angel. 

Sure,  she  hadn't  sent  word  to  any  one.  How  should 
she?  Sorry  an  idea  she  had  where  he  came  from  or  who 
were  his  folks. 

"  I  am  glad.     I  wouldn't  have  worried  my  mother." 

And  answering  the  question  that  was  bounding  in 
Molly's  heart,  he  said  — 

"  There's  no  one  else  to  frighten  or  to  reassure.  I  must 
write  to  my  mother  to-day." 

As  he  said  this  he  remembered  that  he  would  be 
obliged  to  tell  her  of  little  Gardiner,  and  the  blood  rose  to 
his  cheek,  a  spasm  seized  his  heart,  and  his  past  rushed 
over  him  and  smote  him  like  a  great  wave. 

Molly  sat  sewing  in  the  window,  mending  his  shirts, 
the  light  outlining  her  form  and  her  head  like  a  red 
flower.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hand  and  a 
smothered  groan  escaped  him,  and  he  fell  back  on  the 
pillow.  Molly  ran  to  him,  terrified:  "a  relapse,"  that's 
what  it  was.  The  doctor  had  warned  her. 

"  God  in  heaven ! "  she  cried,  and  knowing  nothing 
better  to  do,  she  put  her  arms  round  him  as  if  he  had  been 
a  boy.  She  saw  the  tears  trickle  through  his  thin  hands 
that  in  his  idleness  had  grown  white,  though  the  dark 
ridges  around  the  broken  nails  were  blackened  still. 

112 


113 

Fairfax  quickly  regained  his  control  and  made  the 
girl  go  back  to  her  work.  After  a  little  he  said  — 

"  Who's  been  paying  for  all  these  medicines,  and  so 
forth?" 

"  Lord  love  ye,  that's  nothing  to  cry  about." 

"  There  is  money  in  my  vest  pocket,  Molly ;  get  it, 
will  you  ?  " 

She  found  a  roll  of  bills.     There  were  twenty  dollars. 

She  exclaimed  — 

"  That's  riches !  I've  only  spent  the  inside  of  a  five- 
dollar  bill." 

"  And  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he'll  wait.     He's  used  to  waiting  in  Nut  Street." 

Fairfax  fingered  the  money.  "  And  your  work  at 
Sheedy's?" 

Molly  stood  by  the  bed,  his  shirt  in  her  hand,  her 
brass  thimble  on  one  finger,  a  bib  apron  over  her  bosom. 

"  Don't  bother." 

"  You've  lost  your  place,  Molly ;  given  it  up  to  take 
care  of  me." 

She  took  a  few  stitches,  the  colour  high  in  her  face, 
and  with  a  rare  sensitiveness  understood  that  she  must 
not  let  Antony  see  her  sacrifice,  that  she  must  not  put 
her  responsibility  on  Fairfax.  She  met  his  eyes  candidly. 

"  If  you  go  on  like  this,  you'll  be  back  again  worse 
nor  ye  were.  Sheedy's  afther  me  ivery  day  at  the  dure 
there,  waitin'  till  I'm  free  again.  He  is  that.  Meanwhile 
he's  payin'  me  full  time.  He  is  that.  He'll  keep  me  me 
place ! " 

She  lied  sweetly,  serenely,  and  when  the  look  of  relief 
crept  over  Fairfax's  face,  she  endured  it  as  humble  women 
in  love  endure,  when  their  natures  are  sweet  and  honey- 
like  and  their  hearts  are  pure  gold. 

She  took  the  five  dollars  he  paid  her  back.  He  was  too 
delicate  in  sentiment  to  offer  her  more,  and  he  watched 
her,  his  hands  idly  on  the  sheets. 

"  I  reckon  Joe  Mead's  got  another  fireman,  Molly  ?  " 

"Ah,  no,"  she  laughed,  "Joe's  been  here  every  day 
to  see  when  you  would  be  working,  and  when  Joe  don't 
come  the  other  felly  comes  to  see  when  you'll  let  him 
off!" 

Life,  then,  was  going  on  out  there  in  the  yards.     He 


114  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

heard  the  shriek  of  the  engines,  the  fine  voices  of  the 
whistles,  and  the  square  of  his  sunny  window  framed  the 
outer  day.  People  were  going  on  journeys,  people  were 
coming  home.  He  had  come  back,  and  little  Gardiner  .  .  . 
"  Sit  down,"  he  said  brusquely  to  the  girl  who  stood 
at  hia  side ;  "  sit  down,  for  God's  sake,  and  talk  to  me ; 
tell  me  something,  anything,  or  I  shall  go  crazy  again." 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  recovered  rapidly;  his  hard  work  had  strengthened 
his  constitution,  and  Molly  Shannon  modestly  withdrew, 
and  Mary  Kenny,  the  landlady,  who  had  disputed  the 
place  from  the  first,  took  it  and  gave  Antony  what  further 
care  he  needed.  He  missed  Molly  the  first  day  she  left 
huff,  missed  her  shawl  and  hat  and  the  music  of  her  Irish 
voice.  He  had  sent  for  books  through  Joe  Mead,  and 
read  furiously,  realizing  how  long  he  had  been  without 
intellectual  food. 

But  the  books  made  him  wretched. 

Not  one  of  them  was  written  for  an  artist  who  had 
been  forced  by  hard  luck  to  turn  into  a  day  labourer.  All 
the  beautiful  things  he  read  made  him  suffer  and  desire 
and  long,  and  worse  still,  made  him  rebel.  One  phrase 
out  of  Werther  lingered  and  fascinated  him  — 

"  The  miseries  of  mankind  would  be  lighter  if  —  God 
knows  why  this  is  so  —  if  they  would  not  use  all  their 
imagination  to  remember  their  miseries  and  to  recall  to 
themselves  the  souvenirs  of  their  unhappy  past." 

The  unhappy  past!  Well,  was  it  not  sad  at  his  age 
to  have  a  past  so  melancholy  that  one  could  not  recall  it 
without  tears  ? 

Every  one  but  Sanders  came  to  see  him,  and  jolly 
him  up.  Joe  Mead  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  only 
lived  for  the  time  when  Tony  should  come  back  to  feed 
"  the  Girl,"  as  he  called  his  engine.  Tony  looked  at  his 
chief  out  of  cavernous  eyes.  Joe  Mead  had  on  his  Sunday 
clothes  and  would  not  light  his  cigar  out  of  deference  to 
Tony's  sick-room. 

"  You're  forty,  Mead,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  About  that,  I  guess." 

"  And  I  am  only  twenty-three,"  returned  Fairfax. 

115 


116  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  Is  that  going  to  be  a  picture  of  me  at  forty?  "  he  thought, 
and  answered  himself  violently :  "  My  mother's  pride  and 
mine  forbid." 

"  Sanders  doesn't  come  to  see  me,  Joe  ?  " 

"Nope,"  returned  the  other,  "you  bet  your  life.  If 
he  ain't  waiting  for  you  at  the  door  with  a  gun  when  you 
come  down  it's  only  because  he  is  off  on  his  job." 

When  his  chief  got  up  to  leave  him,  Fairfax  said,  "  I 
want  you  to  get  me  a  book  on  mechanics,  Joe,  practical 
mechanics,  and  don't  pay  over  a  dollar  and  a  half." 

He  owed  Molly  Shannon  more  than  he  could  ever 
return.  The  doctor  told  him,  because  he  imagined  that 
it  would  give  the  young  fireman  satisfaction,  that  the 
nursing  had  saved  his  life.  Sanders  was  not  at  the  stair- 
foot  when  Fairfax  finally  crept  down  to  take  his  first 
outing.  It  was  the  middle  of  February  and  a  mild  day. 
Indeed,  he  had  been  at  work  over  a  fortnight  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Molly  and  Sanders  standing  at  the  head  of 
Nut  Street,  talking. 

As  he  came  up  to  them,  Sanders  turned  a  face  clouded 
with  passion  on  Fairfax. 

"  You  cursed  hound ! "  he  growled  under  his  breath, 
and  struck  out,  but  before  he  could  reach  Fairfax  Molly 
threw  herself  on  Sanders  and  caught  the  blow  on  her  arm 
and  shoulder.  In  spite  of  her  courage  she  cried  out  and 
would  have  fallen  but  for  Fairfax.  The  blow,  furiously 
directed  by  an  able-bodied  man,  had  done  worse  work 
than  Sanders  intended,  and  the  poor  girl's  arm  hung  limp 
and  she  fainted  away. 

"  Mother  of  God,"  muttered  Sanders,  "  I  have  killed  you, 
Molly  darling ! " 

Her  head  lay  on  Fairfax's  shoulder.  "  Let's  get  her 
into  the  coffee  house,"  he  said  shortly. 

Sanders  was  horrified  at  the  sight  of  the  girl  he  adored 
lying  like  death  from  his  blow,  and  with  a  determination 
which  Fairfax  could  not  thwart  the  engineer  took  the  girl 
in  his  own  arms. 

"Give  her  to  me,"  he  said  fiercely,  "I'll  settle  with 
you  later.  Can't  take  her  into  the  coffee  house:  they've 
turned  her  out  on  account  of  you.  There's  not  a  house 
that  would  take  her  but  the  hotel.  I'm  going  to  carry 
her  to  my  mother." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  117 

Followed  by  a  little  group  of  people  whom  Fairfax 
refused  to  enlighten,  they  went  down  the  street,  and 
Sanders  disappeared  within  the  door  of  the  shanty  where 
his  family  lived. 

The  incident  gave  Antony  food  for  thought,  and  he 
chewed  a  bitter  cud  as  he  shut  himself  into  his  room. 
He  couldn't  help  the  girl's  coming  to  him  in  his  illness. 
He  could  have  sent  her  about  her  business  the  first  day 
that  he  was  conscious.  She  would  not  have  gone.  She 
had  lost  her  place  and  her  reputation,  according  to 
Sanders,  because  of  her  love  for  him.  There  was  not  any 
use  in  mincing  the  matter.  That's  the  way  it  stood. 
What  should  he  do  ?  What  could  he  do  ? 

He  took  off  his  heavy  overcoat  and  muffler,  rubbed 
his  hands,  which  were  taking  on  their  accustomed  dirt 
and  healthy  vigour,  poured  out  a  glass  of  milk  from  the 
bottle  on  his  window  sill,  and  drank  it,  musing.  The 
Company  had  acted  well  to  him.  The  paymaster  was  a 
mighty  fine  man,  and  Antony  had  won  his  interest  long 
ago.  They  had  advanced  him  a  month's  pay  on  account 
of  his  illness.  He  brushed  his  blonde  hair  meditatively 
before  the  glass,  settled  the  cravat  under  the  low  rolling 
collar  of  his  flannel  shirt.  He  was  a  New  York  Central 
fireman  on  regular  duty,  no  further  up  the  scale  than 
Molly  Shannon  —  as  far  as  Nut  Street  and  the  others 
knew.  Was  there  any  reason  why  he  should  not  marry 
her?  She  had  harmed  herself  to  do  him  good.  He  was 
reading  his  books  on  mechanics,  a  little  later  he  was  going 
to  night  school  when  his  hours  changed;  he  was  going  to 
study  engineering;  he  had  his  yard  ambitions,  the  only 
ones  he  permitted  himself  to  have. 

It  was  four  o'clock  of  the  winter  afternoon,  and  the 
sunset  left  its  red  over  the  sky.  Through  his  little 
window  he  saw  the  smoke  of  a  locomotive  rise  in  a  milky 
column,  cradle  and  flow  and  melt  away.  The  ringing  of 
the  bells,  the  crying  note  of  the  whistles,  had  becomi 
musical  to  Fairfax. 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  marry  the 
Irish  girl  who  doled  out  coffee  to  railroad  hands.  .  .  . 
Was  there  none?  The  figure  of  his  mother  rose  before 
him,  beautiful,  proud,  ambitious  Mrs.  Fairfax.  She  was 
waiting  for  his  brilliant  success,  she  was  waiting  to  crown 


118  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

him  when  he  should  bring  his  triumphs  home.  The  ugly 
yards  blurred  before  his  eyes,  he  almost  fancied  that  a 
spray  of  jasmine  blew  across  the  pane. 

He  would  write  — 

"  Mother,  I  have  married  an  Irish  girl,  a  loving, 
honest  creature  who  saved  my  life  and  lost  her  own  good 
name  doing  so.  It  was  my  duty,  mother,  wasn't  it? 
I  am  not  striving  for  name  or  fame;  I  don't  know  what 
art  means  any  more.  I  am  a  day  labourer,  a  common 
fireman  on  an  engine  in  the  Albany  yards  —  that's  the 
truth,  mother." 

"  Good  heavens ! "  He  turned  brusquely  from  the 
window,  paced  his  room  a  few  times,  limping  up  and  down 
it,  the  lame  jackdaw,  the  crippled  bird  in  his  cage,  and 
his  heart  swelled  in  his  breast.  No  —  he  could  not  do  it. 
The  Pride  that  had  led  him  here  and  forced  him  to  make 
his  way  in  spite  of  fate,  the  Pride  that  kept  him  here 
would  not  let  him.  He  had  ambitions  then?  He  was 
not  then  dead  to  fame?  Where  were  those  dreams? 
Let  them  come  to  him  and  inspire  him  now.  He  recalled 
the  choirmaster  of  St.  Angel's  church.  He  could  get  a 
job  to  sing  in  St.  Angel's  if  he  pleased.  He  would  run 
away  to  Albany.  He  had  run  away  from  New  York; 
now  he  would  run  from  Nut  Street  like  a  cad  and  save 
his  Pride.  He  would  leave  the  girl  with  the  broken  arm, 
the  coffee-house  door  shut  against  her,  to  shift  for  herself, 
because  he  was  a  gentleman.  Alongside  the  window  he 
had  hung  up  his  coat  and  hat,  and  they  recalled  to  him 
her  things  as  they  had  hung  there.  There  had  been  some- 
thing dove-like  and  dear  in  her  presence  in  his  room  of 
sickness.  His  Pride !  He  could  hear  his  old  Mammy  say  — 

"  Massa  Tony,  chile,  you'  pride's  gwine  to  lead  yo  thru 
black  waters  some  day,  shore/' 

He  said  "  Come  in  "  to  the  short,  harsh  rap  at  the  door, 
and  Sanders  entered,  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 
His  face  was  hostile  but  not  murderous;  as  usual  his 
bowler  was  a-cock  on  his  head. 

"  See  here,  Fairfax,  she  sent  me.  She  ain't  hurt 
much,  just  a  damned  nasty  bruise.  I  gave  her  my 
promise  not  to  stick  a  knife  into  you." 

Fairfax  pushed  up  his  sleeves;  his  arms  were  white  as 
snow.  He  had  lost  flesh. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  lid 

"111  fight  you  right  here,  Sanders,"  he  said,  "and 
we'll  not  make  a  sound.  I'm  not  as  fit  as  you  are,  but 
I'll  punish  you  less  for  that  reason.  Come  on." 

Molly's  lover  put  his  hand  in  his  pockets  because  he 
was  afraid  to  leave  them  out.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  gave  the  girl  my  word,  and  I'd  rather  please  Molly 

than  break  every  bone   in  your  body,   and   that's 

saying  a  good  deal.     And  here  on  my  own  hook  I  want  to 
ask  you  a  plain  question." 

"  I  shan't  answer  it,  Sandy." 

The  other  with  singular  patience  returned,  "  All 
right.  I'm  going  to  ask  just  the  same.  Are  you  .  .  . 
will  you  .  .  .  what  the  hell  ...  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Don't  go  on,"  said  Fairfax ;  "  shut  up  and  go  home." 

Instead,  Sanders  took  off  his  hat,  a  sign  of  unusual 
excitement  with  him.  He  wiped  his  face  and  said 
huskily  — 

"  Ain't  got  a  chance  in  the  world  alongside  you, 
Fairfax,  and  I'd  go  down  and  crawl  for  her.  That's  how 
I'm  about  her,  mate."  His  face  broke  up. 

Fairfax  answered  quietly,  "  That's  all  right,  Sanders  — 
that's  all  right." 

The  engineer  went  on :  "I  want  you  to  clear  out  and 
give  me  my  show,  Tony.  I  had  one  before  you  turned 
up  in  Nut  Street." 

"Why,  I  can't  do  that,  Sanders,"  said  Fairfax  gently; 
"you  oughtn't  to  ask  a  man  to  do  that.  Don't  you  see 
how  it  will  look  to  the  girl  ?  " 

The  other  man's  face  whitened;  he  couldn't  believe  his 
ears. 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  ...  ?"  he  wondered 
slowly. 

The  figure  under  the  jasmine  vine,  the  proud  form  and 
face  of  his  mother,  grew  smaller,  paler  as  does  the  fading 
landscape  when  we  look  back  upon  it  from  the  hill  we  have 
climbed. 

"  The  doctor  told  me  Molly  had  saved  my  life,"  Fairfax 
said.     "They    have    turned   her   out    of    doors    in   • 
Street.     Now  you   must   let   me   make   good   as   far   as 
I  can." 

The  young  man's  blue  eyes  rested  quietly  on  the  blood- 
shot eyes  of  his  visitor.  Sanders  made  no  direct  answer; 


120  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

he  bit  his  moustache,  considered  his  companion  a  second, 
and  clapping  his  hat  on  his  head,  tore  the  door  open. 

"  You  are  doing  her  a  worse  wrong  than  any,"  he 
stammered ;  "  she  ain't  your  kind  and  you  don't  love  her." 

His  hand  whitened  in  its  grip  on  the  door  handle,  then 
giving  one  look  at  his  companion  as  though  he  meditated 
repeating  his  unfortunate  attack  upon  him,  he  flung  him- 
self out  of  the  door,  muttering  — 

"  I've  got  to  get  out  of  here.  ...  I  don't  dare  to 
stay ! " 


CHAPTER  XI 

BY  the  time  the  sublime  spring  days  came,  Fairfax  dis- 
covered that  he  needed  consolation.  He  must  have  been 
a  very  stubborn,  dull  animal,  he  decided,  to  have  so 
successfully  stuffed  down  and  crushed  out  Antony  Fairfax. 
Antony  Fairfax  could  not  have  been  much  of  a  man  at 
any  time  to  have  gone  down  so  uncomplainingly  in  the 
fight. 

"  A  chap  who  is  uniquely  an  artist  and  poet,"  he 
wrote  to  his  mother,  "  is  not  a  real  man,  I  reckon." 

But  he  had  not  described  to  her  what  kind  of  a  fellow 
stood  in  his  stead.  Instead  of  going  to  church  on  Sundays 
he  exercised  in  the  free  gymnasium,  joined  a  base-ball 
team  —  the  firemen  against  the  engineers  —  and  read  and 
studied  more  than  he  should  have  done  whenever  he  could 
keep  his  eyes  open.  Then  spring  came,  and  he  could  not 
deny  another  moment,  another  day  or  another  night,  that 
he  needed  consolation. 

The  wives  and  daughters  of  the  railroad  hands  and 
officials  —  those  he  saw  in  Nut  Street  —  were  not  likely 
to  charm  his  eyes.  Fairfax  waited  for  Easter  —  waited 
with  a  strange  young  crying  voice  in  his  heart,  a  threaten- 
ing softness  around  his  heart  of  steel. 

He  went  on  rapidly  with  his  new  studies;  his  mind 
grasped  readily  whatever  he  attacked,  and  his  teacher, 
less  worldly  than  the  choirmaster  at  St.  Angel's,  wondered 
at  his  quickness,  and  looked  at  his  disfigured  hands.  Joe 
Mead  knew  Tony's  plans  and  his  ambitions;  by  June  they 
would  give  Fairfax  an  engine  and  Mead  would  look  out  for 
another  fireman  to  feed  "  the  Girl."  The  bulky,  panting, 
puffing,  sliding  thing,  feminine  as  the  machine  seemed, 
could  no  longer  charm  Fairfax  nor  occupy  all  his  thoughts. 

121 


122  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

He  had  been  sincere  when  he  told  Sanders  that  he 
would  look  out  for  Molly  Shannon.  The  pinnacle  this 
decision  lifted  him  to,  whether  felt  to  be  the  truth  or 
purely  a  sentimental  advance,  nevertheless  gave  him  a  view 
which  seemed  to  do  him  good.  The  night  after  Sanders' 
visit,  Fairfax  slept  in  peace,  and  the  next  day  he  went 
over  to  Sanders'  mother  and  asked  to  see  Molly  Shannon. 
She  had  left  Nut  Street,  had  run  away  without  leaving 
any  address.  Fairfax  did  not  push  his  chivalry  to  try  to 
find  her.  He  slept  better  than  ever  that  night,  and  when 
during  the  month  Sanders  himself  went  to  take  a  job 
further  up  in  the  State  and  the  entire  Sanders  family 
moved  to  Buffalo,  Fairfax's  slumbers  grew  sounder  still. 
At  length  his  own  restless  spirit  broke  his  repose. 

April  burst  over  the  country  in  a  mad  display  of 
blossoms,  which  Fairfax,  through  the  cab  of  his  engine, 
saw  lying  like  snow  across  the  hills.  He  passed  through 
blossoming  orchards,  and  above  the  smell  of  oil  and 
grease  came  the  ineffable  sweetness  of  spring,  the  perfume 
of  the  earth  and  the  trees.  Just  a  year  ago  he  had 
gone  with  Bella  and  Gardiner  to  Central  Park,  and  he 
remembered  Gardiner's  little  arm  outstretched  for  the 
prize  ring  he  could  never  secure,  and  Bella's  sparkling 
success.  The  children  had  been  in  spring  attire;  now 
Fairfax  could  buy  himself  a  new  overcoat  and  did  so,  a 
grey  one,  well-made  and  well-fitting,  a  straw  hat  with  a 
crimson  band,  and  a  stick  to  carry  on  his  Sunday  jauntings 
—  but  he  walked  alone. 

He  flung  his  books  in  the  bottom  drawer  of  his  bureau, 
locked  it  and  pitched  the  key  out  of  the  window.  He 
would  not  let  them  tempt  him,  for  he  had  weakly  bought 
certain  volumes  that  he  had  always  wanted  to  read,  and 
Nut  Street  did  not  understand  them. 

"  It's  the  books,"  he  decided ;  "  I  can't  be  an  engineer 
if  I  go  on,  nor  will  I  be  able  to  bear  my  lonely  state." 

Verse  and  lovely  prose  did  not  help  him;  their  rhythm 
and  swell  drew  away  the  curtains  from  the  window  of 
his  heart,  and  the  golden  light  of  spring  dazzled  the 
young  man's  eyes.  He  eagerly  observed  the  womenkind 
he  passed,  and  Easter  week,  with  its  solemn  festival,  ran 
in  hymn  and  prayer  toward  Easter  Day.  New  frocks, 
new  jackets,  new  hats  were  bright  in  the  street.  On 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  123 

Easter  Sunday  Fairfax  sat  in  his  old  place  by  the  choir  and 
sang.  The  passion  and  tenderness  brooding  in  him  made 
his  voice  rich  and  the  choir-master  heard  him  above  the 
congregation.  From  the  lighted  altar  and  the  lilies, 
from  the  sunlight  streaming  through  the  stained  windows, 
inspiration  came  to  him,  and  as  Fairfax  sat  and  listened 
to  the  service  he  saw  in  imagination  a  great  fountain  to 
the  left  of  the  altar,  a  fountain  of  his  building  that  should 
stand  there,  a  marble  fountain  held  by  young  angels 
with  folded  wings,  and  he  would  model,  as  Delia  Eobbia 
modelled,  angels  in  their  primitive  beauty,  their  bright 
infancy.  The  young  man's  head  sank  forward,  he 
breathed  a  deep  sigh.  He  owed  every  penny  that  he  had 
laid  by  to  Mrs.  Kenny,  to  the  tailor  and  the  doctor,  and  in 
another  month  he  would  be  engineer  on  probation.  His 
inspiration  left  him  at  the  church  door.  He  walked  rest- 
lessly up  to  the  station  and  with  a  crowd  of  excursionists 
took  his  train  to  West  Albany.  Luncheon  baskets,  crying 
babies,  oranges,  peanuts,  and  the  rest  of  the  excursion  para- 
phernalia filled  the  car.  Fairfax  looked  over  the  crowd, 
and  down  by  the  farther  door  caught  sight  of  a  familiar 
face  and  figure. 

;It  was  Molly  Shannon  coming  back  to  Nut  Street  for 
Easter.  For  several  months  the  girl  had  been  working 
in  the  Troy  collar  factory,  and  drawn  by  the  most  powerful 
of  magnets  was  reluctantly  returning  to  Nut  Street  on 
her  holiday.  Molly  had  no  new  dress  for  Easter.  She 
hadn't  even  a  new  hat.  Her  long  hours  in  the  factory 
and  her  state  of  unhappy,  unrequited  love,  had  worn 
away  the  crude  brilliance  of  her  form.  She  was  pale, 
thinner,  and  in  her  cheap  dress,  her  old  hat  with  its  faded 
ribbon,  with  her  hands  clasped  over  a  little  imitation 
leather  handbag,  she  sat  utterly  alone,  as  youth  and  beauty 
should  never  be. 

Fairfax  limped  down  the  car  and  took  his  place  by 
her  side. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

MRS.  KENNY,  with  prodigal  hospitality,  took  Molly  in 
for  over  Sunday.  Fairfax  walked  alongside  of  her  to  his 
boarding-house,  carrying  the  imitation  leather  bag, 
talking  to  her,  laughing  with  her,  calling  the  colour  back 
and  making  her  eyes  bright.  He  found  himself,  with  his 
young  lady,  before  the  threshold  of  Kenny's  hotel. 
"  Gents  only."  Whether  this  was  the  rule  or  an  idea 
only,  Fairfax  wondered,  for  Molly  was  not  the  first  one  of 
the  gentler  sex  who  had  been  cordially  entertained  in  the 
boarding-house !  Mrs.  Kenny's  sister  and  her  sister's 
child,  her  mother  and  aunts  three,  had  successively  come 
down  on  the  hotel  during  Fairfax's  passing,  and  been 
lavishly  entertained,  anywhere  and  everywhere,  even 
under  Fairfax's  feet,  for  he  had  come  out  one  morning 
from  his  door  to  find  two  little  girls  sleeping  on  a  mattress 
in  the  hall. 

All  his  lifelong  Fairfax  retained  an  adoration  for 
landladies.  They  had  such  tempting  opportunities  to 
display  qualities  that  console  and  ennoble,  and  the  land- 
ladies with  whom  he  had  come  in  contact  took  advantage 
of  their  opportunities!  It  didn't  seem  enough  to  wait 
five  weeks  for  a  chap  to  pay  up,  when  one's  own  rent  was 
due,  but  the  landlady  must  buy  chicken  at  ruinous  prices 
when  a  chap  was  ill,  and  make  soup  and  put  rice  in  it,  and 
carry  it  steaming,  flecked  with  rich  golden  grease,  put 
pot-pie  balls  in  it  and  present  it  to  a  famishing  fireman 
who  could  do  no  more  than  kiss  the  hand,  the  chapped 
hand,  that  brought  the  bowl. 

"  Now  wud  ye,  Misther  Fairfax  ?  " 
He  would,  as  if  it  had  been  his  mother's ! 
Nut    Street   was   moral,    domestic    and    in   proportion 
124 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  125 

severe.  Mary  Kenny  had  not  been  born  there;  she  had 
come  with  her  husband  from  the  happy-go-lucky,  pig- 
harbouring  shanties  of  County  Cork.  She  was  the'  most 
unprejudiced  soul  in  the  neighbourhood.  Between 
boarders,  a  lazy  husband,  six  children  and  bad  debts,  she 
had  little  time  to  gossip,  but  plenty  of  time  in  which  to 
be  generous. 

"I  wull  that!"  she  assured  Molly.  "Ye'll  sleep 
in  the  kitchen  on  a  shakedown,  and  the  divil  knows 
where  it'll  shake  from  for  I  haven't  a  spare  bed  in  the 
house !  " 

Molly  would  only  stay  till  Monday.  .  .  .  Fairfax  put 
her  little  bag  on  the  kitchen  table,  where  a  coarse  cloth 
was  spread,  and  the  steam  greeted  them  of  a  real  Irish 
stew,  ^  and  the  odour  of  less  genuine  coffee  tickled  their 
appetites. 

Molly  Shannon  considered  Fairfax  in  his  new  Easter 
Sunday  spring  clothes.  From  his  high  collar,  white  as 
Nut  Street  could  white  it,  to  his  polished  boots  —  he  was  a 
pleasant  thing  to  look  upon.  His  cravat  was  as  blue  as 
his  eyes.  His  moustache  was  brushed  carefully  from  his 
young,  well-made  mouth,  and  he  beamed  with  good 
humour  on  every  one. 

"  Shure,  dinner's  dished,  and  the  childer  and  Kenny  are 
up  to  the  cemetery  pickin'  vi'lets.  Set  right  down,  the 
rest  will  be  along.  Set  down,  Misther  Fairfax  and  Molly 
Shannon." 

After  dinner,  up  in  his  room,  the  walls  seemed  to  have 
contracted.  The  kitchen's  smoky  air  rose  even  here, 
and  he  flung  his  window  wide  to  the  April  sweetness. 
The  atmosphere  was  too  windless  to  come  in  and  wrestle 
with  the  smell  of  frying,  but  he  saw  the  day  was  golden 
as  a  draught  waiting  to  be  quaffed.  The  restricted  schedule 
of  Sunday  cast  a  quiet  over  the  yards,  and  from  the 
distance  Fairfax  heard  sounds  that  were  not  distinguish- 
able in  the  weekday  confusion,  the  striking  of  the  hour 
from  the  Catholic  Church  bell,  the  voices  of  the  children 
playing  in  the  streets.  There  was  a  letter  lying  on  his 
bureau  from  his  mother:  he  had  not  had  the  heart  to 
read  it  to-day.  The  gymnasium  was  shut  for  repairs, 
there  was  no  ball  game  on  for  Easter  Day,  and,  after  a 
second's  hesitation,  he  caught  up  his  hat  from  where  he 


126 

had  dropped  it  at  his  feet  and  rushed  downstairs  into  the 
kitchen. 

Molly,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  was  washing  dishes  for 
Mrs.  Kenny. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  out  with  me  for  a  walk  ?  " 
Fairfax  asked  her. 

"  Go  along,"  said  Mrs.  Kenny,  giving  her  a  shove  with 
her  bare  elbow.  "  I'll  make  out  alone  fine.  The  suds  is 
elegant.  If  you  meet  Kenny  and  the  children,  tell  them 
there's  not  a  bit  left  but  the  lashins  of  the  stew,  and  to 
hurry  up." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THERE  was  a  divine  fragrance  in  the  air.  Fairfax  stopped 
to  gather  a  few  anemones  and  handed  them  to  his  silent 
companion. 

"  Since  you  have  grown  so  pale  in  the  collar  factory, 
Miss  Molly,  you  look  like  these  flowers." 

He  stretched  out  his  arms,  bared  his  head,  flung  it 
up  and  loo.ked  toward  the  woodland  up  the  slope  and  saw 
the  snow-white  stones  on  the  hill,  above  the  box  borders 
and  the  cedar  borders  of  the  burial  place:  above,  the  sky 
was  blue  as  a  bird's  wing. 

"Let  me  help  you."  He  put  his  hand  under  her  arm 
and  walked  with  her  up  the  hill.  They  breathed  together ; 
the  sweet  air  with  its  blossomy  scent  touched  their  lips, 
nnd  the  ancient  message  of  spring  spoke  to  them.  He 
was  on  Molly's  left  side;  beneath  his  arm  he  could  feel 
her  fluttering  heart  and  his  own  went  fast.  At  the  hill 
top  they  paused  at  the  entrance  to  a  pretentious  lot,  with 
high  white  shafts  and  imposing  columns,  broken  by  the 
crude  whiteness  of  a  single  marble  cross.  Brightly  it  stood 
out  against  the  air  and  the  dark  green  of  cedar  and  box. 

"  This  is  the  most  perfect  monument,"  he  said  aloud, 
"the  most  harmonious;  indeed,  it  is  the  only  relief  to 
the  eye." 

On  every  grave  were  Easter  garlands,  crosses  and 
wreaths;  the  air  was  heavy  with  lilac  and  with  lily. 

Except  for  a  few  monosyllables  Molly  said  nothing, 
but  now,  as  they  paused  side  by  side,  she  murmured  - 

"  It's  beautiful  quiet  after  the  racket  of  the  shops ;  it's 
like  heaven ! " 

Fairfax's  glance  wandered  over  the  acres  of  monuments, 
marking  the  marble  city,  and  came  back  to  the  living  girl 

at  his  side. 

127 


128  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PE1DE 

"  It's  a  strange  place  for  two  young  people  to  stroll 
about  in,  Miss  Molly." 

Molly  Shannon  stood  meekly,  her  work-stained  hands 
clasped  loosely  before  her  and  in  her  form  were  the  beauties 
of  youth,  virginity,  chastity,  promise  of  life  and  fecundity, 
and,  for  Fairfax,  of  passion. 

"  Ah,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  him  slowly,  "  I 
think  it's  lovely  and  quiet  here.  Back  in  Troy  next  week 
when  we  work  overtime  and  the  boss  gets  mad,  I'll  think 
of  it  likely,  I  guess." 

He  talked  to  her  as  they  strolled,  realizing  his  need 
of  companionship,  and  his  pent-up  heart  poured  itself 
forth  as  they  walked  between  the  graves,  and  he  told  the 
Irish  girl  of  Bella  and  little  Gardiner,  and  of  his  grief. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  did  that  day,"  he  finished.  "  I 
was  a  brute  to  my  aunt  and  to  the  little  girl.  I  laid  him 
down  on  his  bed  and  rushed  out  like  a  crazy  man;  the 
house  seemed  to  haunt  me.  I  must  have  been  ill  then. 
I  recall  that  my  aunt  called  to  me  and  that  Bella  hung 
on  my  arm  and  that  I  shook  her  off.  I  recall  that  my 
uncle  followed  me  downstairs  and  stood  by  me  while  I  got 
into  my  overcoat,  but  I  was  too  savage  and  too  miserably 
proud  to  answer  him.  I  left  him  talking  to  me  and  the 
little  girl  crying  on  the  stairs." 

She  asked  him  timidly,  "What  had  they  done  to  make 
you  hate  them  so  ?  "  She  told  herself  in  her  humility  that 
he  was  a  gentleman  and  not  for  her. 

He  continued,  carried  away  by  the  fact  of  a  good  lis- 
tener, and,  although  she  listened,  she  understood  less  than 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  less,  even,  than  the  children.  He  came 
up  against  so  many  things  that  were  impossible  to  tell  her 
that  he  stopped  at  length,  laughing. 

"You  see  how  a  chap  runs  on  when  he  has  a  friend 
by  him,  Miss  Molly.  Why  do  you  go  back  to  the  collar 
factory  ?  " 

He  stopped  short,  remembering  what  Sanders  had  said, 
and  that  Nut  Street  had  shut  its  doors  against  her.  They 
had  come  down  through  the  cemetery  to  the  main  avenue 
that  stretched,  spacious  and  broad,  between  the  dwellings 
of  the  dead.  They  sauntered  slowly  side  by  side,  an 
incongruous,  appealing  couple.  He  saw  her  worn  shoes, 
the  poor  skirt,  the  hands  discoloured  as  were  his,  through 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  129 

toil,  and  his  glance  followed  up  the  line  of  her  form  and 
his  artistic  sense  told  him  that  it  was  lovely.  Under  her 
coarse  bodice  the  breast  gently  swelled  with  her  breath, 
her  eyes  were  downcast,  and  there  was  an  appealing 
charm  about  her  that  a  young  man  in  need  of  love  could 
not  gainsay.  Pity  for  her  had  been  growing  long  in 
Fairfax  —  since  the  first  day  he  saw  her  in  the  coffee  house, 
since  the  time  when  he  had  decided  to  go  elsewhere  for  his 
meals. 

She  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  avenue  and  said  some- 
thing was  beautiful,  and  he  looked  up.  The  marble 
figure  of  an  angel  on  a  grey  pedestal  rose  at  the  gate,  a 
colossal  figure  in  snowy  marble,  with  folded  wings  and 
one  uplifted  hand.  There  was  a  solemn  majesty  in  the 
creation,  a  fine,  noble,  holy  majesty,  and  the  sculptor 
halted  before  it  so  long,  his  face  grave  and  his  eyes 
absorbed,  that  when  Molly  sighed,  he  started.  Along  the 
base  ran  the  words  — 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead1?  " 

"  Come,"  he  said  brusquely  to  his  companion ;  "  come. 
This  is  no  place  for  us."  And  he  hurried  her  out  of  the 
grounds. 

On  the  way  home  his  silence  was  not  flattering  to  his 
companion,  who  was  too  meek  to  be  offended.  Already 
the  pleasure  of  being  by  his  side  was  well-nigh  too  much 
for  her  swelling  heart  to  bear.  The  lengthening  twilight 
filled  Nut  Street  as  they  turned  into  it,  and  very  nearly 
every  member  of  the  little  working  colony  was  out  of 
doors,  including  the  Sheedys  and  the  new  tenants  of 
Sanders'  old  room.  Walking  alongside  of  Molly  Shannon, 
Fairfax  understood  what  his  promenade  would  mean. 
He  glanced  at  his  companion  and  saw  her  colour,  and  she 
raised  her  head  with  a  dignity  that  touched  him,  and  as 
they  passed  the  Sheedys  he  said  "  Good-evening "  in  his 
pleasant  Southern  voice,  lifting  his  hat  as  though  they 
had  been  of  his  own  kind.  He  drew  the  Irish  girl's  arm 
within  his  own. 

For  Molly,  she  walked  a  gamut  of  misery,  and  the 
sudden  realization  of  the  solemnity  of  the  thing  he  was 
doing  made  the  young  man's  heart  beat  heavily. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

HE  had  been  gone  from  home  more  than  a  year,  his 
mother  wrote.  "  One  cannot  expect  to  carve  a  career  in 
twelve  months'  time,  Tony,  and  yet  I  am  so  impatient  for 
you,  my  darling,  I  am  certain  you  have  gone  far  and  have 
splendid  things  to  show  me.  Are  you  sure  that  Albany 
is  the  place  for  you?  Would  it  not  have  been  better  to 
have  stayed  on  with  Cedersholm?  When  will  you  run 
down  to  your  old  mother,  dearest?  I  long  for  the  sound 
of  your  footstep,  the  dear  broken  footstep,  Tony.  .  .  " 
Then  she  went  on  to  say  not  to  mind  her  foolishness,  not 
to  think  of  her  as  mourning,  but  to  continue  with  his 
beautiful  things.  She  had  not  been  very  well  of  late  — 
a  touch  of  fever,  she  reckoned:  Emmeline  took  the  best 
of  care  of  her.  She  was  better. 

He  let  the  pages  fall,  reading  them  hastily,  eagerly, 
approaching  in  his  thought  of  her  everything  he  had 
longed  to  be,  had  yearned  to  be,  might  have  been,  and  the 
letter  with  its  elegant  fine  writing  and  the  fluttering  thin 
sheets  rustled  ghost-like  in  his  hand.  As  he  turned  the 
pages  a  leaf  of  jasmine  she  had  put  between  the  sheets  fell 
unseen  to  the  floor. 

He  would  go  to  New  Orleans  at  once:  he  would  throw 
himself  at  his  mother's  knees  and  tell  her  his  failures,  his 
temptations,  his  griefs:  he  would  get  a  transfer  to  some 
Southern  train,  he  would  steal  a  ride,  but  he  would  go. 
His  mother's  pride  would  suffer  when  she  saw  what  he 
had  become,  but  he  was  not  bringing  her  home  a  shameful 
story.  She  would  ask  to  see  his  beautiful  creations  — 
alas!  even  his  ideals  were  buried  under  grime  and  smoke, 
their  voices  drowned  in  whistles  and  bells!  He  folded 
his  arms  across  his  breast,  the  last  sheet  of  the  long  letter 
in  his  hand,  and  again  his  room  stifled  him  as  it  had  done 

130 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  131 

before  when  he  had  flown  out  to  walk  with  the  Irish  girl. 
The  walls  closed  in  upon  him.  The  ceiling  seemed  to 
confine  him  like  a  coffin  lid,  and  the  flickering  gas  jet  over 
his  bureau  burned  pale  like  a  burial  candle  .  .  . 

He  groaned,  started  forward  to  the  door  as  though  he 
would  begin  his  journey  home  immediately,  but  like  many 
a  wanderer  who  starts  on  his  voyage  home  and  finds  the 
old  landmarks  displaced,  before  Fairfax  could  take  the 
first  step  forward,  his  course  was  for  ever  changed.  .  .  . 
He  had  not  heard  Molly's  knock  at  the  door.  The  girl 
came  in  timidly,  holding  out  a  telegram;  she  brought  it 
as  she  had  brought  the  other,  without  comment,  but  with 
the  Irish  presentiment  of  ill,  she  remained  waiting  silently, 
knowing  in  her  humble  breast  that  she  was  all  he 
hadr 

Fairfax  opened  the  despatch,  held  it  transfixed,  gave 
a  cry  and  said  to  Molly,  staring  her  wildly  in  the  eyes: 
"  My  mother,  my  mother ! "  and  went  and  fell  on  his 
knees  by  his  bed  and  flung  his  arms  across  it  as  though 
across  a  beloved  form.  He  shook,  agonized  for  a  few 
moments,  then  sprang  up  and  stared  at  the  desertion  before 
him,  the  tears  salt  on  his  face  and  his  heart  of  steel  broken. 
And  the  girl  by  the  door,  where  she  had  clung  like  a  leaf 
blown  there  by  a  wind  of  grief,  came  up  to  him.  He  felt 
her  take  his  arm  between  her  hands,  he  felt  her  close  to 
him. 

"  It  cuts  the  heart  o'  me  to  see  ye.  It's  like  death 
to  see  ye.  Is  it  your  mother  gone?  The  dear  mother 
ye  must  be  like?  God  knows  there's  no  comfort  for  that 
kind,  but,"  she  breathed  devotedly,  "I'd  give  the  life  o' 
me  to  comfort  ye/' 

He  hardly  heard  her,  but  her  presence  was  all  he  had. 
Her  human  companionship  was  all  that  was  left  him.  in 
the  world.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  said 
brokenly  — 

"  You  don't  know  what  this  means.  It  is  the  end  of 
me,  the  end.  To  think  I  shall  never  see  her  again !  Oh, 
Mother! "  he  cried,  and  threw  up  his  arms.  The  loving 
woman  put  hers  about  him  as  the  gesture  left  him  shorn 
of  his  strength,  and  when  his  arms  fell  they  were  around 
her.  He  held  her  for  a  moment  as  a  drowning  man  holds 
to  that  which  is  flung  out  to  him  to  save  his  life;  then  he 


132  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

pushed  her  from  him.  "  Let  me  get  out  of  this.  I  must 
get  out  of  the  room." 

"You'll  not  do  anything  to  yourself?  Ah,  tell  me 
that/' 

He  snatched  up  his  hat  and  fled  from  her  without 
reply. 

He  wandered  like  a  madman  all  night  long.  Whither 
he  did  not  know  or  care.  He  was  walking  down  his 
anguish,  burying  his  new  grief  deep,  deep.  His  nails 
clenched  into  his  palms,  the  tears  ran  over  his  face.  One 
by  one  as  the  pictures  of  his  mother  came  to  him,  imperious, 
graceful,  enchanting,  one  by  one  he  blessed  them,  wor- 
shipped before  them  until  the  curtain  fell  at  the  end  — 
he  could  not  picture  that.  Had  she  called  for  him  in 
vain?  Had  she  watched  the  open  door  to  see  him  enter? 
In  God's  name  why  hadn't  they  sent  for  him  ?  "  Suddenly 
of  heart  disease  .  .  ."  the  morning  of  this  very  day  —  this 
very  day.  And  on  he  tramped,  unconsciously  going  in 
the  direction  he  had  taken  that  morning,  and  at  a  late  hour 
found  himself  without  the  gates  of  the  cemetery  where  he 
and  Molly  Shannon  had  spent  the  late  afternoon.  The 
iron  gates  were  closed;  within  stretched  the  shining  rows 
of  the  houses  and  palaces  of  the  dead,  and  on  their  snowy 
portals  and  their  marble  doors  fell  the  first  tender  glimmer 
of  the  day.  Holding  the  gate  between  his  convulsive 
hands,  staring  in  as  though  he  begged  an  entrance  as  a 
lodger,  Fairfax  saw  rise  before  him  the  angel  with  the 
benign  uplifting  hand,  and  the  lettering,  large  and  clear, 
seemed  written  that  day  for  him  as  much  as  for  any  man  — 

"  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead?  " 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  angel  face  on  whose  brow 
and  lips  the  light  of  his  visions  had  gathered  for  him  that 
morning;  and  as  he  looked  the  angelic  figure  brightened 
in  the  dawn;  and  after  a  few  moments  in  which  he 
remained  blotted  against  the  rails  like  an  aspirant  at 
Heaven's  gate,  he  turned  and  more  quietly  took  his  way 
home. 


CHAPTER  XV 

HE  did  not  go  South.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  go 
for.  The  idea  of  his  home  uninhabited  by  her  made  him  a 
coward.  Emmeline  sent  him  her  thimble,  her  lace  collar, 
her  wedding  ring  and  a  lock  of  her  hair,  shining  still  and 
without  a  touch  of  grey.  The  packet,  wrapped  up  in  soft 
paper  and  folded  by  jasmine  leaves  and  buds,  whose 
withered  petals  were  like  a  faded  dress,  Fairfax  put  away 
in  his  trunk  and  did  not  untie;  he  did  not  wish  to  open 
his  wound.  And  his  face,  thinner  from  his  illness  and  his 
loss,  looked  ten  years  older.  The  early  happy  ecstasy  of 
youth  was  gone,  and  a  bitter,  mature  recklessness  took  its 
place,  and  there  was  no  hand  to  soothe  him  but  Molly's, 
and  she  had  gone  back  to  Troy.  He  tried  what  ways  were 
open  to  a  man  of  his  age  and  the  class  he  had  adopted, 
and  he  turned  for  distraction  and  relief  and  consolation 
to  their  doors.  But  at  those  portals,  at  the  threshold  of 
the  houses  where  other  men  went  in,  he  stopped.  If  his 
angel  had  deserted  him,  at  any  rate  the  beast  had  not 
taken  its  place.  The  vast  solitude  and  the  cruel  loneliness, 
the  isolation  from  his  kind,  made  him  an  outcast  too 
wretched  not  to  cry  for  help  and  too  clean  to  wallow  in 
order  to  forget  his  state.  His  work  saved  his  health  and  his 
brain.  He  made  a  model  of  an  engine  in  plaster  and  went 
mad  over  it;  he  set  it  on  a  shelf  in  his  room  and  when  in 
June  he  drove  his  own  engine  and  was  an  engineer  on  the 
New  York  Central,  he  knew  his  locomotive,  body  and  soul 
and  parts,  as  no  other  mechanic  in  the  Company  knew  it. 
His  chiefs  were  conscious  of  his  skill  and  intelligence. 
There  were  jealousies  and  enmities,  and  instead  of  driving 
the  express  as  he  had  hoped,  he  was  delegated  to  a  local 
on  a  branch  line,  with  an  Italian  for  fireman  who  could 
not  speak  a  word  of  any  but  his  own  language. 

133 


134  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"You  speak  Italian,  don't  you,  Fairfax?"  his  boss 
at  the  office  asked  him. 

("Cielo  azuro  .  .  .  Giornata  splendida  .  .  .!")  and 
he  smelt  the  wet  clay. 

"  I  can  point,"  laughed  the  engineer,  "  in  any  language ! 
and  I  reckon  I'll  get  on  with  Falutini." 


THE  bois  was  a  Massachusetts  man  and  new  to  Nut 
Street,  and  Fairfax,  when  he  took  the  paper  with  his 
orders  from  Rainsford's  hand,  saw  for  the  first  time  in 
months  a  man  of  his  own  class,  sitting  in  the  revolving 
chair  before  the  desk  where  his  papers  and  schedules  and 
ledgers  were  filed.  The  man's  clothes  were  too  thin  for 
the  season,  his  linen  was  old  and  his  appearance  meagre, 
and  in  his  face  with  its  sunken  cheeks,  the  drooping  of 
the  eyes  and  the  thinness  of  the  brow,  were  the  marks  of 
the  sea  of  life  and  its  waste,  and  the  scars  of  the  storm. 
A  year  ago  Fairfax  would  have  passed  Rainsford  by  as  a 
rather  pitiful-looking  man  of  middle  age. 

The  boss,  his  thin  hand  opening  and  shutting  over  a 
small  book  which  looked  like  a  daily  ledger,  regarded  the 
engineer  in  his  red  shirt  as  Fairfax  paused. 

"  Irish,  I  expect  ?  Your  name,  Fairfax,  is  Irish. 
I  understand  you've  had  a  hard  blow  this  year,  been  sick 
and  lost  your  mother." 

At  the  quiet  statement  of  this  sacred  fact  Fairfax 
started  painfully,  his  face  flushed. 

"  He  would  not  have  spoken  to  me  like  that,"  he 
thought,  "  if  he  had  not  imagined  me  a  working  man." 

"Work  is  the  beat  friend  a  young  man  can  have," 
Rainsford  went  on;  "it  is  a  great  safeguard.  I  take  it 
that  you  are  about  thirty  ?  " 

"Twenty-three,"  said  Fairfax,  shortly. 

His  report  was  brief.  Just  then  his  fireman  came  in, 
a  black-haired,  tall  young  fellow  with  whom  Fairfax  knew 
he  should  never  sing  "  Mia  Maddelena." 


135 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HE  avoided  Rainsford,  gave  himself  up  to  his  engine  and 
his  train,  and  took  a  dislike  to  his  black-headed  fireman, 
who  dared  to  be  Italian  and  to  recall  the  aurora  of  days 
he  had  buried  fathoms  deep.  The  heat  pouring  on  him 
in  summer  time  made  him  suffer  physically.  He  rather 
welcomed  the  discomfort;  his  skin  grew  hardened  and 
tanned  and  oiled  and  grimed,  and  his  whole  body  strong 
and  supple;  and  his  devotion  to  his  work,  the  air  that 
filled  him  as  he  flew,  made  him  the  perfect,  splendid 
animal  that  he  was. 

At  night,  when  the  darkness  blotted  out  the  steel  rails, 
and  the  breeze  blowing  through  the  car-window  fluttered 
his  sleeve  till  it  bellied,  and  the  cinders,  red  and  biting, 
whirled  by,  and  on  either  side  the  country  lay  dark  and 
fragrant  with  its  summery  wealth  —  at  night  his  eyes, 
fixed  on  the  track  under  the  searchlight,  showed  him 
more  than  once  a  way  to  end  his  unhappy  life,  but  his 
confused  reveries  and  his  battle,  spiritual  and  physical, 
helped  him,  and  he  came  out  of  it  with  a  love  for  life  and 
a  stronger  hold  upon  it  each  time  than  the  last.  He  gave 
up  wearing  his  Sunday  clothes,  he  went  as  the  others  did ; 
he  had  not  been  for  months  to  Albany  or  to  Troy. 

One  Sunday  in  midsummer  his  local  did  not  run  on 
the  seventh  day.  He  considered  his  own  image  in  the 
glass  over  his  bureau  and  communed  with  his  reflection. 
The  result  of  his  musings  was  that  he  opened  his  trunk 
and  took  out  the  precious  packet;  started  to  unfold  it, 
turned  it  over  in  his  uncertain  hands,  thrust  it  back,  set 
his  teeth  and  went  out  to  the  junction  and  took  the  train 
for  Troy. 

He  found  her  in  the  boarding-house  where  she  was 
passing  her  Sunday,  rocking  the  landlady's  teething  baby. 

136 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  137 

He  bade  her  to  come  as  she  was,  not  to  fix  up.  The  idea 
of  a  toilet  which  would  end  in  a  horrible  frock  rasped  his 
nerves.  She  detected  a  great  change  in  him,  simple- 
minded  though  she  was,  and  she  tried  to  get  him  to  talk 
and  failed.  Down  at  the  Erie  Canal,  by  the  moored  boats 
and  the  motionless  water,  he  seized  her  arm  and  facing  her, 
said,  his  lips  working  — 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  marry  me,  Molly." 

She  grew  as  white  as  the  drying  linen  on  the  windless 
air,  as  the  family  wash  hung  on  the  canal  boat  lines 
behind  her.  Her  grey  eyes  opened  wide  on  Antony. 

"  I'm  making  a  good  living :  too  much  for  me  alone." 

He  saw  her  try  to  find  her  voice  and  her  senses,  and 
with  something  of  his  old  radiance,  he  said  — 

"  I'm  a  brute.  I  reckon  I  don't  know  how  to  make 
love.  I've  startled  you." 

"  Ah,  shure,  ye  don't  know  what  ye're  saying,"  she 
whispered ;  "  the  likes  o'  me  ain't  good  enough." 

"  Hush,  hush,"  he  answered,  "  don't  say  foolish  things." 

She  gasped  and  shook  her  head.  "Ye  shouldn't 
tempt  me  so.  It's  crool.  Ye  shouldn't  tempt  me  so." 

With  a  self-abandonment  and  a  humility  which  he 
never  afterward  forgot,  as  her  life  and  colour  came  back 
Molly  said  under  her  breath  — 

"  Take  me  as  I  am,  shure,  if  I'm  the  least  bit  of  good 
to  ye.  I  love  ye  enough  for  both." 

He  exclaimed  and  kissed  her. 

Dreams  of  women!  Visions  of  the  ecstasy  of  first 
love,  ideals  and  aspirations,  palpitating,  holy,  the  young 
man's  impassioned  dream  of  The  Woman,  the  Only  Woman, 
the  notion  and  conception  that  the  man  of  nature  and  of 
talent  and  of  keen  imagination  sleeps  upon  and  follows 
and  seeks  and  seeks  and  follows  all  his  life,  from  boyhood 
to  the  grave  —  where  were  they  then? 

He  had  brushed  his  aunt's  cheek,  he  had  touched  her 
hand  and  trembled;  now  he  kissed  fresh  young  lips  that 
had  yearned  for  his,  and  he  gave  his  first  embrace  to 
woman,  put  his  arms  round  Molly  Shannon  and  her  young 
body  filled  them.  As  she  had  said,  she  had  love  enough 
for  both.  He  felt  a  great  gratitude  to  her,  a  relaxation 
of  his  tense  senses,  a  melting  of  his  heart,  and  his  tender- 
ness was  deep  for  her  when  his  next  kiss  met  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HE  returned  to  Nut  Street  dazed,  excited  but  less  senti- 
mentally miserable  and  more  profoundly  touched.  He 
had  made  himself  a  mechanical  career;  he  had  assumed 
the  responsibilities  of  a  man.  He  might  have  been  a 
miserable  failure  as  a  sculptor,  perhaps  he  would  be  a 
good  mechanic.  Who  knows  where  any  flight  will  carry 
a  man?  Making  his  life,  married  and  founding  a  home, 
he  would  be  a  factor  in  the  world's  progress,  and  a  self- 
supporting  citizen.  He  tried  to  fire  himself  with  this 
sacrifice.  At  any  rate,  in  order  to  save  his  body  he  had 
lost  his  soul  —  that  is,  his  spiritual  soul.  "  Is  not  the  life 
more  than  the  meat  ? "  In  the  recesses  of  his  artist's 
mind  a  voice  which  he  had  strangled  tried  to  tell  him  that 
he  had  done  his  soul  a  great,  great  wrong.  Nevertheless, 
a  solemn  feeling  of  responsibility  and  of  manhood  came 
upon  him,  a  grave  quiet  strength  was  his,  and  as  he 
journeyed  back  to  his  lodgings,  he  did  not  then  regret. 

Mrs.  Kenny  and  her  husband  and  the  children  were 
in  the  kitchen  as  he  passed  and  the  landlady  called  out 
something,  but  he  did  not  hear  for  he  was  half-way  upstairs. 
As  he  opened  the  door  and  went  into  his  room  he  saw 
some  one  was  standing  by  the  window  —  no,  leaning  far 
out  of  the  window,  very  far ;  a  small  figure  in  a  black  dress. 

"Bella!  "he  cried. 

She  flashed  about,  rushed  at  him,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  "  Going  to  Siberia  "  he  felt  the  entwining  arms. 
He  suffered  the  dashing  embrace,  then,  freeing  himself, 
saw  her  hair  dark  under  her  black  hat,  and  that  she  had 
grown  in  eighteen  months,  and  he  heard  — 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Antony,  how  long  you  have  been  coming 
home!  I  have  been  waiting  for  your  engine  to  come 

138 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  139 

under  the  window,  but  I  didn't  see  you.     How  did  you  get 
here  without  my  seeing  you  ?  " 

If  the  sky  had  opened  and  shown  him  the  vision  of 
his  own  mother  he  could  not  have  been  more  over- 
whelmed with  surprise. 

"Where  did  you  come  from,  Bella?  Who  is  with 
you  ?  " 

She  took  her  hat  off,  dropped  it  easily  on  the  floor, 
and  he  saw  that  her  hair  was  braided  in  a  great  braid. 
She  sat  on  the  ledge  of  the  open  window  and  swung  her 
feet.  Her  skirts  had  been  lengthened,  but  she  was  still 
a  little  girl.  The  charming  affectionate  eyes  beamed  on 
him. 

"But  you  are  like  anybody  else,  Cousin  Antony, 
to-day.  When  I  saw  you  in  your  flannel  shirt  I  thought 
you  were  a  fireman/' 

At  the  remembrance  of  when  she  had  seen  him,  a  look 
of  distress  crossed  her  mobile  face.  She  burst  out  crying, 
sprang  up  and  ran  to  him. 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Antony,  I  want  him  so,  my  little  brother, 
my  little  playmate." 

He  soothed  her,  made  her  sit  on  his  bed  and  dried  her 
tears,  as  he  had  dried  them  when  she  had  cried  over  the 
blackbird. 

"Who  is  with  you,  honey?  Who  brought  you 
here?" 

As  though  she  had  stored  up  all  her  sorrow,  as  though 
she  had  waited  with  a  child's  loyal  tenderness  for  this 
moment,  she  wound  her  arms  around  Fairfax's  neck  and 
brought  her  face  close  to  his  cheek. 

"  I  miss  him  perfectly  dreadfully,  Cousin  Antony. 
Nobody  took  care  of  him  much  but  me.  Now  father 
is  broken-hearted.  You  loved  him,  didn't  you?  He  per- 
fectly worshipped  you." 

"  There,  Bella,  you  choke  me,  honey.  I  can't  breathe. 
Now  tell  me  who  let  you  come.  Is  Aunt  Caroline  here  ?  " 

She  had  no  intention  of  answering  him,  and  wiped  her 
eyes  briskly  on  the  handkerchief  that  he  gave  her. 

"  Tobacco,"  she  sniffed,  "  your  handkerchief  has  got 
little  wisps  of  tobacco  on  it.  I  think  it  is  perfectly  splendid 
to  be  an  engineer!  I  wouldn't  have  thought  so  though, 
if  I  hadn't  seen  you  in  the  flannel  shirt.  Wouldn't  you 


140  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

rather  be  a  genius  as  you  used  to  think  ?  Don't  you  make 
casts  any  more?  Isn't  it  sweet  in  your  little  room,  and 
aren't  the  tracks  mixing?  How  do  you  ever  know  which 
ones  to  go  on,  Cousin  Antony?  And  which  is  your 
engine?  Take  me  down  to  see  it.  How  Gardiner  would 
have  loved  to  ride !  " 

She  was  a  startling  combination  of  child  and  woman. 
Her  slenderness,  her  grace,  her  tender  words,  the  easy 
flow  of  speech,  the  choice  of  words  caught  and  remem- 
bered from  the  varied  books  she  devoured,  her  ardour 
and  her  rare  brilliant  little  face,  all  made  her  an  unusual 
companion. 

"  Now  answer  me,"  he  ordered,  "  who  came  with  you 
to  Albany?" 

"  No  one,  Cousin  Antony." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  came  alone." 

"  From  New  York  ?    You're  crazy,  Bella !  " 

She  sat  up  with  spirit,  brought  her  heavy  braid  around 
over  her  shoulder  and  fastened  the  black  ribbon  securely. 

"  I  lose  my  hair  ribbons  like  anything,"  she  said. 
"  Why,  I've  done  things  alone  for  years,  Cousin  Antony. 
I've  been  all  over  New  York  matching  things.  I  used  to 
buy  all  Gardiner's  things  alone  and  have  them  charged. 
I  know  my  way.  I'm  going  on  fourteen.  You  dropped 
your  telegram,  the  one  Miss  Mitty  sent  you,  when  you 
rushed  out  that  night.  I  found  it  on  the  stairs."  She 
fished  it  out  of  her  pocket.  "  Mr.  Antony  Fairfax,  42, 
Nut  Street,  West  Albany.  I  had  to  watch  for  a  good 
chance  to  come,  and  when  I  got  to  Forty-second  Street 
I  just  took  a  ticket  for  West  Albany,  and  no  one  ever 
asked  me  my  name  or  address,  and  the  people  in  the  cars 
gave  me  candy  and  oranges.  At  the  station  down  here 
I  asked  the  ticket  man  where  Nut  Street  was,  and  he 
said :  '  Right  over  those  tracks,  young  lady,'  and 
laughed  at  me.  Downstairs  the  woman  gave  me  a  glass 
of  milk  —  and  aren't  the  children  too  sweet,  Cousin 
Antony,  with  so  many  freckles?  And  doesn't  she  speak 
with  a  brogue  just  like  old  Ann's  ?  " 

"This  is  the  wildest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  her 
cousin.  "  I  must  telegraph  your  mother  and  take  you 
home  at  once." 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  141 

She  gasped.  "Oh,  you  wouldn't  do  that?  I'm  not 
going  home.  I  have  run  away  for  good." 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  little  cousin." 

"I  hate  home,"  she  said  hotly,  "it's  lonely,  and  I 
miss  my  little  brother.  They  won't  let  me  go  to  school, 
and  mother  takes  lessons  from  an  opera  singer,  and  there 
is  no  quiet  place  to  read.  I  never  go  to  the  Top  Floor 
where  we  used  to  play."  She  clung  to  his  hand.  "  Let 
me  stay,  Cousin  Antony,"  she  pleaded,  "  I  want  to  live 
with  you." 

She  coloured  furiously  and  stopped.  And  Fairfax 
saw  that  she  was  like  his  mother,  and  that  the  promises 
were  fulfilled.  Her  low  collar,  edged  with  fine  lace,  fell 
away  from  the  pure  young  throat.  Her  mouth,  piquant 
and  soft,  half-coaxing  and  half-humorous,  and  her  glorious 
eyes  fast  losing  the  look  of  childhood,  were  becoming 
mysterious. 

"  You  are  too  big  a  girl,"  he  said  sternly,  "  to  talk 
such  nonsense.  You  are  too  old  to  be  so  silly,  Bella. 
Why,  your  people  must  be  insane  with  anxiety." 

But  her  people,  as  it  turned  out,  were  at  Long  Branch 
for  the  summer,  and  Bella,  presumably  to  go  to  the 
dentist,  had  come  up  to  stay  for  a  day  or  two  with  the 
little  Whitcomb  ladies.  She  had  chosen  her  time  well. 

"  No  one  knows  where  I  am.  The  Whitcombs  don't 
know  I  am  coming  to  New  York,  and  the  family  think  I 
am  with  Miss  Eulalie  and  Miss  Mitty." 

"  There  is  a  train  to  New  York,"  he  said,  "  in  half  an 
hour." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  Cousin  Antony,  how  horrid ! 
You've  changed  perfectly  dreadfully.  I  see  it  now. 
You  used  to  be  fond  of  me.  I  thought  you  were  fond  of 
me.  I  don't  want  to  force  myself  on  you,  Cousin  Antony." 

Fairfax  was  amazed,  charmed  and  bewildered  by  her. 
What  did  Mrs.  Kenny  think?  He  opened  the  door  and 
called  her,  and  said  over  his  shoulder  to  Bella  - 

"  What  did  you  tell  the  woman  downstairs  ?  " 

Bella  picked  her  hat  up  from  the  floor  and  wound 
the  elastic  around  her  fingers.  Her  face  clouded. 

"Tell  me,"  Antony  urged,  "what  did  you  say  to 
Mrs.  Kenny  ? "  He  saw  her  embarrassment,  and  re- 
peated seriously :  "  For  heaven's  sake,  Bella,  tell  me," 


142  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  No,"  she  whispered,  "  I  can't." 

He  shrugged  in  despair.  "  Come,  it  can't  be  anything 
very  dreadful.  I've  got  to  know,  you  see." 

The  bell  of  the  Catholic  Church  tolled  out  eight 
o'clock. 

"  Come,  little  cousin." 

Half-defiantly  and  half-shamefacedly,  she  raised  her 
eyes. 

"  It's  rather  hard  to  tell  you,"  she  stammered,  "  you 
seem  to  be  so  mad  at  me."  She  put  a  brave  face  on  it. 
"  I  just  told  them  that  I  was  engaged  to  you  and  that  I 
had  come  to  marry  you."  And  she  stood  her  ground, 
her  little  head  held  up. 

Fairfax  stifled  a  shout,  but  was  obliged  to  laugh 
gently. 

"Why,  Bella,  you  are  the  most  ridiculous  little  cousin 
in  the  world.  You  have  read  too  much.  Now,  please 
don't  cry,  Bella." 

He  flung  the  door  open  and  called :  "  Mrs.  Kenny, 
Mrs.  Kenny !  Will  you  come  up-stairs  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THOSE  five  hours  were  short  to  him  travelling  back  to 
New  York.  Bella  talked  to  Fairfax  until  she  was  com- 
pletely talked  out.  Leaning  on  him,  pouring  out  her 
childish  confidences,  telling  him  things,  asking  him  things, 
until  his  heart  yearned  over  her,  and  he  stored  away  the 
tones  of  her  sweet  gay  voice,  exquisite  with  pathos  when 
she'  spoke  of  Gardiner,  and  naively  tender  when  she 
said  — 

"  Cousin  Antony,  I  love  you  better  than  any  one  else. 
Why  can't  I  stay  with  you  and  be  happy?  I  want  to 
work  for  my  living  too.  I  could  be  a  factory  girl." 

A  factory  girl! 

Then  she  fell  asleep,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and 
was  hardly  awake  when  they  reached  Miss  Mitty's  house 
and  the  cab  stopped. 

He  said,  "  Bella,  we  are  home." 

She  did  not  answer,  and,  big  girl  as  she  was,  he  carried 
her  in  asleep. 

"  I  wish  you  could  make  her  believe  it's  all  a  dream," 
he  said  to  the  Whitcombs.  "  I  don't  want  the  Carews  to 
know  about  it.  It  would  be  far  better  if  she  could  be 
induced  to  keep  the  secret." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  can't  make  Bella  believe  anything 
unless  she  likes,  Mr.  Antony." 

No  one  had  missed  her.  From  the  Long  Branch  boat 
she  had  gone  directly  to  the  Forty-second  Street  station, 
and  started  bravely  away  on  her  sentimental  journey. 

The  little  ladies  induced  him  to  eat  what  they  could 
prepare  for  him,  and  he  hurried  away.  He  was  obliged 
to  take  his  train  out  at  nine  Monday  morning. 

He  bade  them  look  after  bold  Bella  and  teach  her  reason, 
and  before  he  left  he  went  in  and  looked  at  the  little  girl 

143 


144  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

lying  with  her  face  on  her  hand,  the  stains  of  tears  and 
travel  on  her  face. 

"  I  told  her  that  I  had  come  to  marry  you,  Cousin 
Antony.  .  .  " 

"  Little  cousin  !     Honey  child !  " 

His  heart  was  tender  to  his  discarded  little  love. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BELLA  CAREW'S  visit  did  disastrous  work  for  Fairfax. 
The  day  following  he  was  like  a  dead  man  at  his  engine, 
mechanically  fulfilling  his  duties,  his  eyes  blood-shot,  his 
face  worn  and  desperate.  The  fireman  Falutini  bore 
Fairfax's  rudeness  with  astonishing  patience.  Their 
run  was  from  nine  until  four,  with  a  couple  of  hours  lying 
off  at  Fonda,  and  back  again  to  Albany  along  in  the 
night. 

The  fatality  of  what  he  had  been  doing  appeared  to 
Antony  Fairfax  in  its  full  magnitude.  He  had  cut 
himself  off  from  his  class,  from  his  kind  for  ever.  Bella 
Carew,  baby  though  she  was,  exquisite,  refined,  brilliant, 
what  a  woman  she  would  be!  At  sixteen  she  would  be  a 
woman,  at  eighteen  any  chap,  who  had  the  luck  and  the 
fortune,  could  marry  her.  She  would  be  the  kind  of 
woman  that  a  man  would  climb  for,  achieve  for,  go  mad 
for.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  had  made  his  choice. 
He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  an  Irish  factory  girl, 
and  her  words  came  back  to  him  — 

"If  I'm  any  good,  take  me  as  I  am.  You  couldn't 
marry  the  likes  o'  me." 

Why  had  he  ever  been  such  a  short-sighted  Puritan,  so 
little  of  a  worldling  as  to  entangle  himself  in  marriage? 
More  terribly  the  sense  of  his  lost  art  had  come  in  with 
the  little  figure  he  had  admitted. 

When  he  flung  himself  into  his  room  Monday  morning 
his  brain  was  beyond  his  usual  control,  it  worked  like 
magic,  and  one  by  one  they  passed  before  him,  the 
tauntingly  beautiful  aerial  figures  of  his  visions,  the 
angelic  forms  of  his  ideals,  and  if  under  his  hands  there 
had  been  any  tools  he  would  have  fallen  upon  them  and 
upon  the  clay  like  a  famished  man  on  bread.  He  threw 

145 


146  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

himself  down  on  his  lonely  bed  in  his  room  through  which 
magic  had  passed,  and  slept  heavily  until  Mrs.  Kenny 
pounded  on  the  door  and  roused  him  an  hour  before 
his  train. 

At  Fonda,  in  the  shed,  he  climbed  stiffly  from  his 
cab,  his  head  aching,  his  eyes  drunk  with  sleep.  All  there 
was  of  brute  in  him  was  rampant,  and  anything  that 
came  in  his  way  would  have  to  bear  the  brunt  of  his 
unbalanced  spleen. 

Falutini,  a  great  bunch  of  rags  in  his  hand,  was  at 
the  side  of  the  engine,  wiping  the  brass  and  softly  hum- 
ming. Fairfax  heard  it  — 

"  Azuro  puro, 
Cielo  azuro, 
Mia  Maddalena  .  .  ." 

"  Stop  that  infernal  bellow,"  he  said,  "  will  you  ?  " 

The  Italian  lifted  himself  upright  and  responded  in 
his  own  tongue  — 

"I  work,  I  slave,  I  endure.  Now  I  may  not  sing? 
Macche,"  he  cried  defiantly,  "  I  will  sing,  I  will." 

He  threw  his  chest  out,  his  black  eyes  on  Tony's  cross 
blue  ones.  He  burst  out  carolling  — 

"  Ah  Mia  Maddalena." 

Fairfax  struck  his  face;  the  Italian  sprang  at  him  like 
a  cat.  Falutini  was  as  tall  as  Fairfax,  more  agile  and  with 
a  hard  head.  However,  with  one  big  blow,  Fairfax  sent 
him  whirling,  and  as  he  struck  and  felt  the  flesh  and  blood 
he  discovered  how  glorious  a  thing  a  fight  is,  how  nerve 
relaxing,  and  he  received  the  other's  assault  with  a  kind 
of  ecstasy.  They  were  not  unequally  matched.  Falutini's 
skin  and  muscles  were  like  toughened  velvet;  he  was  the 
cock  of  his  village,  a  first-rate  boxer;  and  Tony's  muscles 
were  of  iron,  but  Fairfax  was  mad  and  gloomy,  and  the 
Italian  was  desperate  and  disgusted,  and  he  made  the 
better  show. 

A  few  men  lounged  in  and  one  called  out:  "You 
darned  cusses  are  due  to  start  in  ten  minutes." 

Fairfax  just  then  had  his  arm  round  the  Italian's 
neck,  the  close  cropped  head  came  under  his  chin,  and  as 
Fairfax  panted  and  as  he  smelt  the  garlic  that  at  first 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  147 

had  nauseated  him  in  his  companion,  he  was  about  to 
lay  his  man  when  the  same  voice  that  called  before, 
yelled  in  horror  — 

"  Look  out,  for  God's  sake,  Fairfax,  he's  got  a  knife." 

At  the  word,  Fairfax  gave  a  wrench,  caught  his  com- 
panion's right  hand  with  his  left  and  twisted  the  wrist, 
and  before  he  knew  how  he  had  accomplished  it,  he  had 
flung  the  man  and  knife  from  him.  The  knife  hit  Number 
Twenty-four  and  rattled  and  the  fireman  fell  in  a  lump  on 
the  ground.  Fairfax  stood  over  him. 

"  What  a  mean  lout  you  are,"  he  said  in  the  jargon  he 
had  learned  to  speak,  "what  a  mean  pup.  Now  you 
get  up,  Tito,  and  clear  out." 

The  fellow  rose  with  difficulty,  white,  trembling, 
punched  a  little  about  the  face,  and  breathing  like  a 
saw-mill.  Some  one  handed  the  knife  to  Fairfax. 

"It  never  was  made  in  America.  It's  a  deadly 
weapon.  Ugh,  you  onion !  " 

The  Italian  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  forehead  with 
his  shirt  sleeve  and  spat  out  on  the  floor. 

Fairfax  felt  better  than  he  had  felt  for  years.  He  went 
back  to  his  engine. 

"  Get  up,  Tito,"  he  commanded  his  fireman ;  "  you 
get  in  quickly  or  I'll  help  you  up.  Give  me  the  oil  can, 
will  you  ?  "  he  said.  And  Tito,  trembling,  his  teeth  dry 
between  his  lips,  obeyed. 

Fairfax  extended  his  hand,  meeting  his  companion's 
eyes  for  the  first  time,  and  said  frankly  — 

"  My  fault.     No  hard  feeling,  Tito.     Bene  benissimo." 

He  smiled  and  slapped  the  Italian  on  the  back  almost 
affectionately.  Tito  saw  that  radiant  light  for  the  first 
time  —  the  light  smile.  The  old  gentleman  had  said  a  man 
could  win  the  world  with  an  expression  like  that  upon  his 
face. 

"Keep  your  knife,  Falutini;  cut  up  garlic  with  it: 
don't  use  it  on  me,  amico  —  partner." 

They  went  to  work  without  a  word  further  on  the  part 
of  either,  and  Number  Twenty-four  slipped  out  on  to  the 
switch  and  was  wedded  to  the  local  on  the  main  line. 

Fairfax  was  relieved  in  mind,  and  the  morbid  horror 
of  his  crisis  had  been  beaten  and  shaken  out. 

"What    brutes    we    are,"    he    thought,    "what    brutes 


148  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

and  animals.  It  is  a  wonder  that  any  spirit  can  grow  its 
wings  at  any  time/' 

He  drew  up  into  a  station  and  stopped,  and,  leaning 
out  of  his  window,  watched  the  passengers  board  the 
train.  Fluff,  pluff,  pant,  pant.  The  steal  and  flow  and 
glide,  the  run  and  the  motion  that  his  hand  on  the  throttle 
controlled  and  regulated,  became  oftentimes  musical  to 
him,  and  when  he  was  morose  he  would  not  let  the  glide 
and  the  roll  run  to  familiar  melodies  in  his  head,  above 
all,  no  Southern  melodies.  "  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the 
boys  are  marching,"  that  was  the  favourite  with  Number 
Twenty-four.  He  had  used  to  whistle  it  as  he  modelled 
in  his  room  in  New  Orleans,  where  the  vines  grew  around 
his  window  and  Maris  made  molasses  cake  and  brought 
it  up  hot  when  the  syrup  was  thick  on  the  side,  and  down- 
stairs a  voice  would  call,  "  Emmeline,  oh,  Emmeline." 
That  sacred  voice  .  .  . !  When  Number  Twenty-four  was 
doing  her  thirty  miles  an  hour,  that  was  the  maximum 
speed  of  the  local,  her  wheels  were  inclined  to  sing  — 

"  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton, 
Among  thy  green  braes : ' 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee 
A  song  in  thy  praise. 
My  Mary's  asleep 
By  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton, 
Disturb  not  her  dream." 

And  little  Gardiner  leaned  hard  against  his  arm  and  Bella 
ran  upstairs  to  escape  the  music  because  she  did  not  like 
to  cry,  and  his  aunt's  dove-like  eyes  reproached  him  for 
his  brutal  flight.  He  would  not  hear  any  ballads;  but 
to-night,  no  sooner  had  he  rolled  out  again  into  the  open 
country  than  he  began  to  hum  unconsciously  the  first 
tune  the  wheels  suggested.  They  were  between  the 
harvest  fields  and  in  the  moonlight  lay  the  grain  left  by 
the  reapers. 

"  Cielo  azuro 
Giornata  splendida, 
Mia  Maddalena." 

Fairfax  laughed  when  he  recognized  it.  He  glanced 
over  at  Falutini  who  was  leaning  out  of  his  window 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  149 

dejectedly.  At  the  next  station,  whilst  the  engine  let 
off  steam,  Fairfax  called  to  his  fireman,  and  the  man,  as 
he  turned  his  face  to  his  chief,  looked  more  miserably 
homesick  than  revengeful. 

"  I  used  to  know  a  chap  from  Italy ! "  Fairfax  said 
in  his  halting  Italian,  "  a  molto  bravo  diavolo.  Shake 
her  down,  Tito,  and  brace  her  up  a  little,  will  you?  " 

The  fireman  bent  to  the  furnace,  its  blast  red  on  his 
face;  from  under  the  belly  of  the  engine  the  sparks  sang 
as  they  fell  into  the  water  gutter  along  the  track. 

"  My  chap  was  a  marble  cutter  from  Carrara." 

Tito  banged  the  door  of  the  furnace.  "I  too  am  from 
Carrara." 

"  Good ! "  cried  Fairfax,  "  good  enough."  And  to 
himself  he  said :  "  I'll  be  darned  if  I  ever  knew  Benvenuto 
Cellini's  real  name !  " 

"  Carrara,"  continued  his  companion,  "  is  small. 
He  may  have  been  a  cousin.  What  was  his  name  ?  " 

"  Benvenuto  Cellini,"  replied  Tony,  easily,  and  rang 
his  bell. 

Once  more  they  rolled  out  into  the  night.  As  they 
drove  through  the  country  Fairfax  saw  the  early  moon- 
light lie  along  the  tracks,  sifting  from  the  heavens  like  a 
luminous  snow.  No  breeze  stirred  and  over  the  grain 
fields  the  atmosphere  hung  hot  and  heavy,  and  they 
rushed  through  a  sea  of  heat  and  wheat  and  harvest 
smells.  The  wind  of  their  going  made  a  stir,  and  as 
Fairfax  peered  out  from  his  window  his  head  was  blown 
upon  by  the  wind  of  the  speed. 

Falutini  from  his  side  of  the  cab  said,  "Benvenuto 
Cellini.  That  is  not  a  Carrara  man,  no,  no." 

"  I  never  knew  him  by  any  other  name,"  said  the 
engineer.  "I  like  Italians."  He  threw  this  cheerfully 
over  his  shoulder  at  his  inferior. 

There  was  a  childlike  and  confiding  smile  on  the 
Italian's  face;  brutal  as  all  Italian  peasants  are,  brutal 
but  kindly  and  unsuspicious  as  a  child,  ready  to  love  and 
ready  to  hate. 

"  Only  you  mustn't  use  your  knife ;  it's  not  well  thought 
of  in  America.  You'll  get  sent  to  gaol." 

The  Limited  whistled  from  around  a  curve,  came 
roaring  toward  them,  tore  past  them,  cutting  the  air,  and 


150  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

Fairfax's  local  plugged  along  when  the  mile-a-minute 
left  them.  Tony  was  conscious  that  as  he  hummed  the 
sound  grew  full  and  louder;  he  was  accompanied  by  a 
voice  more  assured  than  his  own,  and  in  melodious 
fraternity  the  two  men  sang  together.  So  they  took  their 
train  in. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  Kennys  did  not  know  what  had  happened  to  Misther 
Fairfax.  He  sang  on  the  stairs  now  and  again  as  he  had 
done  when  he  first  came  to  Nut  Street.  He  bought  the 
children  sweet  Jackson  balls  and  the  baby  nearly  died 
from  "wan  in  its  troat,"  and  his  mother  picked  him  up 
by  his  socks  and  rattled  the  sticky  sweet  out  of  the  child's 
larynx,  and  the  cat  finished  it. 

Tony's  foreman  was  asked  in  to  have  supper  and  a 
late  cup  of  coffee,  and  Miss  Cora  Kenny,  whom  "  Pop " 
had  sent  to  the  Troy  convent  the  first  week  of  Antony's 
appearance  in  the  Gents'  Boarding  and  Lodging  House, 
came  home  for  a  Catholic  holiday,  and  she  helped  her 
mother.  They  made  macaroni  for  Tito  Falutini  — "  high 
Falutini,"  as  Mrs.  Kenny  called  him.  The  name  stuck, 
and  the  macaroni  stuck  as  well,  fast  to  the  plate;  but  the 
Italian,  in  bashful  gratitude,  his  eyes  suffused  with  smoke 
and  tears,  ate  gratefully,  gesticulating  his  satisfaction,  and 
Cora  Kenny  studied  him  from  the  stove  where  she  slaved 
to  tempt  the  appetites  of  Fairfax  and  his  friend. 

Fairfax  was  proud  of  Falutini:  he  was  not  an  ordinary 
acquaintance;  he  sang  after  supper,  standing  stiffly  in  a 
corner  of  the  kitchen,  his  red  shirt  well  opened  at  the 
throat,  and  his  moustache  like  black  velvet  above  his  red 
lips. 

"  He  sings  betther  than  the  theayter,  Misther  Fairfax," 
Mr.  Kenny  said ;  "  it  makes  yer  eyes  thrick  ye,"  and  blew 
his  nose,  and  Cora  asked  the  singer  softly  if  he  could  give 
them  "  When  the  band  begins  to  play,"  or  "  Gallagher's 
Daughter  Belle."  Tito  smiled  hopefully,  and  when  Fairfax 
laughingly  translated,  assured  Cora  Kenny  by  means  of 
Fairfax  again,  that  if  determination  could  make  a  man 

151 


152  FA1KFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

learn  a  foreign   song,   he  would   sing   her   "Gallagher's 
Daughter  Belle  "  next  Saturday  night. 

"  Ah,"  she  breathed,  "  she'd  not  be  home  then ! ' 

"No,"  said  Kenny,  who  was  a  lazy  husband  but  a 
remarkable  father,  "  that  she  wud  not !  " 

The  Italian  fireman  and  the  Irish  lodging-house 
keeper's  daughter  gazed  in  each  other's  eyes.  "  Gallagher's 
Daughter  Belle"  .  .  .  dum  .  .  .  dum  .  .  .  Fairfax 
hummed  it,  he  knew  it.  Kenny's  daughter  Cora  —  that 
would  be  more  to  the  point:  and  he  thought  of  Molly. 
He  had  not  seen  her  since  he  had  kissed  her  a  fortnight 
before.  Cora  said  she  had  never  been  bold  before,  had 
never  let  herself  think  how  jealous  she  was,  but  to-night 
Mr.  Tito  High-Falutini's  eyes  made  her  a  new  woman. 
Cora  said  to  her  mother  over  her  shoulder  — 

"  Shure,  Molly  Shannon's  the  onlucky  gurl." 

"How's  that,  Cora?" 

"  Lost  her  job." 

"  No !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kenny,  sympathetically,  "  and 
with  what  doin'?" 

Shure,  the  foreman's  daughter  was  a  chum  with  Cora. 
The  boss  had  made  the  girl  prisents  of  collars,  and  it 
seemed,  so  Bridget  said  —  Cora  with  exquisite  subtlety 
dropped  her  voice,  and  after  a  second  Mrs.  Kenny 
exclaimed  — 

"  Cora,  you're  a  bad  gurl  to  hark  to  such  goings  on, 
much  less  belave  thim,"  and  pushed  her  daughter  back 
and  brought  out  herself  the  crowning  delicacy  of 
the  feast,  a  dish  that  needed  no  foreign  help  to  compose, 
steaming  praties  cooked  in  their  shimmies,  as  she  ex- 
pressed it.  Cora  sat  down  by  High-Falutini,  Mrs.  Kenny 
went  into  the  next  room  to  her  littlest  children,  and 
Kenny  lit  a  fresh  pipe,  held  the  bowl  in  his  hand,  and 
opposite  his  distractingly  pretty  little  daughter  kept  a 
thoughtful  eye  upon  the  pair.  And  Fairfax  went  upstairs 
two  steps  at  a  time. 

It  was  after  eleven,  dense  and  hot,  but  he  had  gone  up 
eagerly.  Of  late,  whenever  he  had  a  few  spare  moments 
he  took  them,  and  all  Sundays  he  remained  in  his  room, 
There  was  an  odour  in  the  apartment,  one  that  persistently 
rpse  above  the  tenement  smells,  a  damp,  moist,  earthy 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  153 

perfume,  to  Fairfax  delicious  beyond  words.  Mosquitoes 
were  rampant,  but  he  had  been  brought  up  in  a  mosquito- 
ridden  country,  and  he  had  rigged  a  bit  of  muslin  across 
his  window,  and  burned  Mrs.  Kenny's  gas  with  heartless 
inconsideration. 

On  a  small  wooden  stool  stood  something  covered 
with  cloths  damped  night  and  morning  by  Fairfax,  and 
during  the  day  by  Matty  Kenny,  a  public-school  girl  of 
twelve  years  of  age,  a  pretty,  half-witted  little  creature, 
whom  of  all  Nut  Street  Fairfax  liked  and  whom  he  blindly 
trusted.  Between  school  hours  the  little  girl  ran  up  and 
patted  with  a  sponge  the  mysterious  image  in  Misther 
Fairfax's  hall  room.  Tell?  Ah,  shure,  Misther  Fairfax, 
cross  Jjer  heart  and  hope  to  die  but  she'd  not.  As  her 
duties  consisted  in  tidying  Antony's  room,  her  visits  were 
not  remarked.  Now  Antony  lifted  off  the  first  cloth; 
he  drew  out  the  stool  under  the  light,  flung  off  his  coat, 
rolled  up  his  sleeves,  loosened  his  cravat,  got  from  his 
drawer  a  small  spatular  instrument,  and  looking  at  his 
unveiled  work,  meditatively  wiped  the  dried  clay  from  his 
tool.  Then  he  drew  off  the  last  bit  of  cheesecloth,  un- 
covering a  statuette  modelled  in  clay  with  great  delicacy 
and  great  assurance.  The  gaslight  fell  yellow  on  it 
and  the  little  statue  seemed  to  swim,  to  oscillate  and 
illumine.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  little  girl,  her  hair  loose 
around  her  face,  holding  to  her  cheek  a  dead  blackbird. 
The  art  of  the  work  was  its  great  sincerity,  the  calm, 
assured  modelling,  the  tender  truthfulness;  the  form  of 
the  child,  her  dress,  even  her  strapped  shoes  were  only 
indicated,  nevertheless  it  was  a  perfect  bit  of  realism, 
though  crude.  But  the  head,  the  attitude,  the  cheek  and 
the  face,  the  little  caressing  enfolding  hands,  were  Greek 
in  their  perfect  execution. 

A  flush  rose  on  the  young  man's  face,  his  eyes 
brightened,  he  gave  a  soft  touch  here  and  there  with  the 
little  instrument,  but  he  had  done  all  he  could  to  this 
creation.  It  was  only  in  perishable  clay,  it  must  crumble 
and  dry;  how  could  he  perpetuate  it?  He  thought  of 
having  it  cast  in  terra-cotta,  but  how  and  where?  The 
figure  vacillated  in  the  gaslight,  and  taunted  him  with  its 
perishability,  its  evanescence,  frail,  transient  as  childhood 
is  transient.  "Bella,"  he  mused  before  it,  "little 


154  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

cousin."  His  right  hand  had  not  quite  lost  its  cunning, 
then?  He  could  construct  and  direct  a  locomotive,  but 
he  had  not  lost  all  his  skill.  For  what  the  statue  proved 
to  him,  for  its  evidence  of  his  living  art  and  his  talent, 
he  loved  it,  he  turned  it  and  viewed  it  on  all  sides,  whistling 
softly  under  his  breath,  not  morbid  about  his  tunes  now. 

Tito  High-Falutini  pushed  the  door  open.  "  Goin' 
home,  Tony,  la  Signora  Kenni  has  turned  me  out." 

Fairfax  pointed  to  his  statue.  "  Look.  If  we  were 
in  Carrara  somebody  would  lend  me  a  quarry  or  I  would 
steal  one,  and  turn  little  Bella  into  a  snow  image."  He 
spoke  in  English,  entirely  uncomprehended  by  his  com- 
panion. He  put  his  hand  on  Tito's  arm. 

"Did  you  do  that,  Tony?  It  is  valuable.  In  Italy 
we  make  terra-cotta  figures  like  that  and  sell  them." 

"  Do  you  think,  Tito,"  his  companion  replied,  "  that 
I  would  sell  little  Bella  for  a  few  lire,  you  commercial 
traveller?" 

Tito  was  acquainted  with  the  Italian  quarter,  he 
would  find  some  one  who  baked  in  terra-cotta.  They  had 
brought  their  trades  with  them.  Tony  could  do  others: 
a  Savoyard  with  a  hand-organ,  those  things  were  very 
gentile,  very  brave  indeed,  and  money,  said  Tito,  gloating, 
money, —  why  that  would  cost  a  dollar  at  least. 

Fairfax  covered  up  the  clay  and  pushed  the  stool 
back  in  its  corner. 

"  You  can  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  too,"  he  said  good- 
humouredly,  and  pushed  Falutini  out.  "  Go  home  and 
dream  of  Kenny's  daughter  Cora,  and  don't  forget  to  buy 
a  can  of  crude  oil  and  order  a  half  dozen  of  those  cock- 
screws.  Good-night."  He  banged  the  door. 

He  undressed,  still  softly  whistling,  unpinned  the 
curtain  from  the  window,  and  what  there  was  of  heat 
and  freshness  came  into  the  room  with  the  mosquitoes 
that  had  huddled  at  the  glass  and  the  sill.  He  had 
heard  Cora  Kenny's  information:  Molly  had  lost  her 
place  because  she  would  not  do  what  the  boss  wanted. 
They  always  wanted  one  thing  in  the  collar  factories. 
The  boss  was  a  beast.  He  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  He 
had  not  been  lonely  the  last  fortnight,  his  work  had 
absorbed  him.  There  was  no  way  for  him  to  go  on  with 
it,  he  had  no  time,  nor  means.  It  had  brought  him  near 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  155 

to  his  people,  to  his  mother,  to  his  kinsmen,  to  the  child 
who  had  died,  to  the  one  that  remained.  But  he  knew 
his  loneliness  would  return,  his  need  of  companionship, 
of  expression  and  life,  and  he  was  too  healthy,  too  strong 
to  be  nourished  by  his  sentimental  thought  of  the  child- 
woman  or  to  live  on  the  sale  of  terra-cotta  statues.  He 
cradled  his  young  head  with  its  fair  hair  on  his  arm  and 
fell  asleep,  and  over  the  yards  the  harvest  moon  rose 
yellow  and  shone  through  the  small  window  and  on 
Antony.  He  might  have  been  a  boy  asleep  at  school, 
his  face  looked  so  young  and  so  unstained,  and  the  same 
light  shone  on  the  angel  of  the  resurrection  at  the  gate  of 
the  rural  cemetery,  on  Gardiner's  little  grave  in  Woodlawn, 
and  on  his  mother's  grave  in  New  Orleans,  where  the 
brick,.~walls  keep  the  coffins  high  above  the  Mississippi's 
tide  and  silt. 

The  moonlight  could  not  penetrate  to  the  corner 
where,  under  the  damp  cloths,  Bella  wept  over  the  black- 
bird pressed  against  her  cheek. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

FAIRFAX  expected  to  find  a  melancholy,  wet-eyed  little 
creature  with  a  hard-luck  story  when  he  went  to  Troy, 
and  although  he  knew  that  Molly  would  never  reproach 
him,  he  knew  as  well  that  he  had  treated  her  very  badly. 
From  the  day  he  had  asked  her  to  become  Mrs.  Antony 
Fairfax,  and  heard  Cora  Kenny's  news,  he  had  not  been 
near  his  sweetheart.  His  sweetheart !  Since  he  had  read 
"  The  Idylls  of  the  King  "  in  his  boyhood,  no  woman  had 
seemed  too  high  or  too  fine  for  him :  he  had  been  Lancelot 
to  Guinevere,  the  Knight  to  the  Lady:  Molly  Shannon 
had  not  been  in  any  romance  he  had  ever  read. 

He  found  her  sitting  among  her  lodging-house  keeper's 
children  in  a  room  tidied  by  her  own  hands.  During 
her  leisure,  she  had  made  herself  a  pink  gingham  dress 
with  small  white  rosebuds  on  it,  and  around  her  neck  a 
low  white  collar  she  had  pinned  with  a  tortoise-shell 
brooch.  Her  dress  was  the  simplest  Fairfax  had  ever 
seen  her  wear.  It  was  cool  and  plain,  and  the  Irish  girl's 
milk-white  skin,  her  auburn  hair,  her  eyes  with  the  black 
flecks  in  them,  her  young  round  breast,  her  bare  fore-arm, 
as  she  rocked  Patsy  O'Brien,  were  charming,  and  her  cry, 
as  Fairfax  came  in,  and  the  hands  she  pressed  to  her  heart 
were  no  less  charming. 

She  sprang  up,  her  work  fell  to  the  floor:  she  stood 
deathly  white  and  trembling.  Her  emotion,  her  love, 
affected  the  young  man  very  deeply.  He  did  not  think 
of  the  obstacles  between  them,  of  her  station,  or  of  any- 
thing as  he  came  into  Mrs.  O'Brien's  parlour-bedroom 
amongst  her  six  ubiquitous  children  and  disturbed  the 
cradle  to  get  to  Molly  Shannon.  He  thought  of  one  fact 
only,  that  he  had  kissed  her:  how  had  he  forgotten  the 
honey  of  it  for  a  fortnight?  Without  so  much  as  bidding 

156 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  157 

her  good-morning,  he  repeated  the  ecstasy  and  kissed 
her.  She  had  time  to  grow  faint  and  to  regain  her  life 
in  his  arms,  and  under  her  happy  breath  she  whispered: 
"Ah,  I  must  quiet  Patsy.  Ah,  let  me  go,  he'll  hurt  his 
throat."  And  she  bent,  blooming  and  heart-breakingly 
happy,  over  the  cradle. 

Mrs.  Kenny  called  him  as  he  went  past  the  door. 
"  Shure,"  she  said,  "  I've  got  bad  news  for  ye,  Misther 
Fairfax,  dear." 

He  stopped  on  the  threshold.  "  There  is  only  one 
death  on  the  earth  that  could  give  me  any  pain,  Mrs. 
Kenny.  I  reckon  it's " 

"  It's  not  death  then,"  she  hastened,  "  shure  it's 
a  little  thing,  but  poor  Matty's  that  crazy  that  the  child 
has  gone  out  to  her  aunty's  and  wurra  a  bit  will  she  come 
home." 

"  Matty !  "  Fairfax  exclaimed. 

"  Shure,  the  moniment  in  your  bedroom,  Misther 
Fairfax." 

He  flew  upstairs.  The  corner  inhabited  for  him  by  a 
fairy  companion  was  empty.  The  image  of  his  talent, 
of  his  little  love,  of  his  heart's  hope,  had  disappeared. 
Mrs.  Kenny  did  not  follow  him  upstairs  as  one  would 
have  supposed  that  she  would  do.  He  locked  his  door, 
the  cloths  lay  in  a  pile,  damp  and  soggy.  Why  had  they 
not  left  the  fragments  —  the  precious  morsels?  His  eyes 
filled  with  impotent,  angry  grief;  he  tore  his  table  drawer 
open  and  found  the  designs  which  he  had  made  for  the 
figure.  The  sketches  seemed  crude  and  poor  beside  the 
finished  work  whose  execution  had  been  inspired.  This 
destruction  unchained  again  his  melancholy.  He  was 
overwhelmed;  the  accident  seemed  like  a  brutal  insistence 
of  Destiny,  and  he  seemed  bound  to  the  coarse,  hard 
existence  to  which  he  had  taken  in  desperation.  With 
this  destruction  he  saw  as  well  the  wiping  out  of  his  life 
of  Bella. 

Ah,  at  Troy  that  day  he  had  done  more  than  break  a 
clay  image  of  her.  He  opened  the  door  as  if  he  would 
have  called  to  Mrs.  Kenny,  then  slammed  it,  unable  to 
speak  from  excitement,  and  a  dogged  look  crossed  his 
face.  The  night  was  muggy,  his  throat  burned  with  a 


158  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PKIDE 

sudden  thirst,  and  he  exulted  that  it  did  so.  On  his 
empty  room,  empty  to  him  for  ever,  for  the  figure  in.  the 
corner  had  disenchanted  it  of  all  its  horrors  for  fourteen 
happy  days  and  nights,  he  looked  once  and  then  he  fled. 
He  threw  himself  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  late 
mid-summer  night. 

The  coloured  porter  at  the  Delavan  put  him  to  bed  at 
one  o'clock  in  a  comfortable  room.  As  the  fellow's 
black  face  bent  above  him,  Tony,  who  saw  it  blur  and 
waver  before  his  intoxicated  eyes,  murmured  — 

"  Emmy,  Emmy,  don't  tell  my  mother,  and  wake  me  at 
seven,  for  I  run  out  at  nine  sharp." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  paymaster,  Peter  Rainsford,  had  found  little  in 
West  Albany  to  excite  the  tepid  interest  he  still  retained 
in  life,  but  Tony  Fairfax,  the  driver  of  Number  Twenty- 
four,  had  attracted  his  attention.  Each  time  that  Fairfax 
came-  to  report  Rainsford  made  a  vain  effort  to  engage 
him  in  conversation.  The  agent  wondered  what  the 
engine-driver's  story  was,  and  having  one  of  his  own, 
hoped  for  Fairfax's  sake  that  there  was  anything  but  a 
class  resemblance  between  them. 

Detained  late  this  night  at  his  desk,  he  pushed  back 
his  lamp  to  contemplate  Tito  Falutini,  who,  his  hat 
pressed  against  his  red  flannel  breast,  his  teeth  sparkling, 
came  in  to  report.  Tito  told  a  tale  in  a  jargon  which  only 
an  etymologist  could  have  sifted  into  words. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  him?" 
Rainsford  asked. 

The  Italian  gesticulated  with  his  hat  far  and  wide. 

"  You  took  the  train  to  Fonda  alone,  without  an 
engineer,  Falutini?  How  was  it  the  fellows  didn't  stop 
you  at  Fonda?  It  doesn't  seem  possible." 

The  official  opened  a  ledger  and  ran  his  eye  over  the 
names. 

"  I  can  put  Steve  Brodie  on  Number  Twenty-four 
to-morrow  morning.  You  should  have  reported  at  once 
in  West  Albany,  Falutini." 

The  name  of  Steve  Brodie  was  intelligible  to  Tito. 
"  Nota  io,"  he  said,  "  not  a  fire  for  any  man,  only  Toni." 

Rainsford  wrote  a  few  moments  in  his  ledger.  "  Want 
me  to  strike  your  name  right  off  the  books  now,  Falutini? 
I've  a  good  mind  to  do  it  anyway.  You  should  have 
reported  at  nine  this  morning." 

"  Want  to  find  Fairfax,"  said  the  Italian. 

159 


160  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

The  disappearance  did  not  speak  well  for  the  young 
man  in  whom  the  boss  had  taken  an  interest. 

"  Has  he  paid  up  at  Kenny's  ? "  Rainsf  ord  asked 
hopelessly. 

Falutini  did  not  understand.  "  Signora  Kenni," 
informed  the  fireman,  "  mutche  cri,  kids  mutche  cri,  altro." 
Fairfax,  the  fellow  made  Rainsford  understand,  had  left 
his  clothes  and  belongings. 

"Ah,"  Rainsford  thought,  "it  looks  worse  than  at 
first." 

"No,"  Falutini  explained,  "no  fight."  Then  he 
broke  forth  into  an  explanation  from  which  Rainsford 
vainly  tried  to  create  some  order.  Statues  and  terra- 
cotta figures  mingled  with  an  explanation  of  theft  of  some 
property  of  Fairfax's  and  his  flight  in  consequence. 

"  I'll  close  up  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  go 
over  and  see  Mrs.  Kenny.  Steve  Brodie  will  take  your 
engine,  and  you  look  out  for  yourself,  my  man,  and  don't 
get  bounced  when  you  come  in  to  report  to-morrow." 

Rainsford  saw  Mrs.  Kenny  in  the  kitchen-bedroom- 
parlour  of  the  first-class  hotel  (Gents  only).  "When  he 
came  in  and  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  the  Irish  family 
Rainsford  did  not  know  that  he  was  the  second  gentleman 
that  had  crossed  the  threshold  since  the  sign  had  swung 
in  the  window.  Mary  Kenny  was  intelligible,  charmingly 
so,  and  her  account  was  full  of  colour;  and  the  young 
man's  character  was  drawn  by  a  woman's  lips,  with  a 
woman's  tenderness. 

"  Ah,  wurra  sor,"  she  finished,  "  Oi  cud  go  down  on 
me  knees  to  him  if  it  wasn't  for  Pathrick  Kenny.  It  was 
an  evil  day  when  that  Hitalian  came  to  the  dure.  Wud 
ye  now?"  she  offered,  as  though  she  suggested  that  he 
should  view  sacred  relics,"  "wud  ye  feel  like  goin'  up  to 
his  room  and  castin'  an  eye  ?  " 

Peter  Rainsford  did  so,  feeling  that  he  was  taking 
a  man  at  a  disadvantage,  but  consoling  himself  with  the 
thought  that  Fairfax's  disappearance  warranted  the 
invasion.  Mrs.  Kenny,  the  baby  on  her  arm,  stood  by 
his  side,  and  called  over  the  objects  as  though  she  were 
a  showman  at  a  museum. 

"That's  his  bury,  sor,  and  the  best  wan  in  the  hotel, 
and  them's  his  little  ornyments  an'  foolin's  in  order  on 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  161 

the  top.  Matty  reds  his  room  up,  an'  never  a  hand  but 
mine  puts  his  wash  to  rights."  She  pulled  a  drawer 
open.  "  His  beautiful  starched  shirts,  I  doos  them  with 
me  own  hands  and  charges  him  as  though  he  was  me  son ; 
an'  there  is  his  crayvats,  an'  over  there,"  she  pointed  with 
her  thumb,  "  stud  the  image,  bad  cess  to  the  Hitalian  an' 
his  likes,  Mr.  Eainsford,  an'  many's  the  time  I've  stud 
beyont  the  dure  an'  heard  him  sing  and  whustle  beautiful, 
whilst  he  was  a-carvin'  of  it." 

Eainsford  looked  at  a  small  design  pinned  against  the 
wall :  he  considered  it  long. 

"  Do  ye  think  that  he's  kilt  then  ? "  asked  the  Irish 
woman. 

The  paymaster  returned  briskly.  "  No,  I  don't 
think  so.  I  hope  he  has  not  come  to  any  harm." 

"  His  readin'  buks,  sor,"  she  said,  "  wud  ye  cast  an 
eye?" 

But  here  Eainsford  refused,  and  returning  to  his  own 
lodgings  higher  up  in  the  town,  and  on  a  better  scale, 
went  home  thoughtful,  touched,  and  with  a  feeling  of 
kinship  with  the  truant  engineer.  Before,  however,  he 
could  take  any  steps  to  look  for  Fairfax,  a  coloured  man 
from  somewhere  appeared  with  the  request  that  Mrs. 
Kenny  send  all  Fairfax's  things.  The  mysterious  lodger 
enclosed,  moreover,  a  week's  board  in  advance,  but  no 
address;  nor  had  the  coloured  man  any  information  for 
Nut  Street,  and  a  decided  antipathy  existed  between 
George  Washington  and  Mary  Kenny.  She  was  pale 
when  she  packed  up  Fairfax's  belongings  and  cried  into 
his  trunk,  as  she  laid  the  drawing  of  Bella  Carew  next  to 
the  unopened  packet  of  his  mother's  treasures.  She  was 
unconscious  of  what  sacred  thing  she  touched,  but  she 
was  cut  to  the  heart,  as  was  poor  Falutini.  Peter  Eains- 
ford, who  had  not  gone  far  in  his  friendship  with  the 
elusive  Fairfax,  was  only  disappointed. 

At  the  close  of  the  following  Sunday  afternoon, 
Eainsford  was  reading  in  his  room  when  Fairfax  himself 
came  in. 

"Why,  hello,  Fairfax,"  the  paymaster's  tone  was  not 
that  of  a  disaffected  patron  to  a  delinquent  engineer. 
"You  are  just  two  weeks  late  in  reporting  Number 


162  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Twenty-four.  But  I'm  sincerely  glad  you  came,  whatever 
the  reason  for  the  delay." 

Eainsford's  greeting  was  that  of  a  friend  to  a  friend. 
Fairfax,  surprised,  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  smilod 
"  Thanks."  He  took  the  chair  Eainsford  offered.  "  Why 
thank  you,  Eainsford."  He  took  a  cigar  which  Eainsford 
handed  him.  He  was  in  the  dress  of  a  railroad  man  off 
duty. 

"Now  I  don't  know  anybody  I've  been  more  curious 
about,"  said  the  paymaster.  "Where  on  earth  did  you 
go  to,  Fairfax?  You  don't  know  how  you  have  mystified 
us  all  here,  and  in  fact,  me  from  the  first." 

"  There  are  no  end  of  mysteries  in  life,"  said  the  young 
man,  still  smiling ;  "  I  should  have  wondered  about  you, 
Mr.  Eainsford,  if  I  had  had  either  the  time  or  the  courage !  " 

"Courage,  Fairfax?" 

"Why  yes,"  returned  the  engineer,  twisting  his  cigar 
between  his  fingers,  "  courage  to  break  away  from  the 
routine  I've  been  obliged  to  follow." 

Fairfax  saw  before  him  a  spare  man  of  about  forty 
years  of  age.  The  thin  hair,  early  grey,  came  meekly 
around  the  temples  of  a  finely  made  and  serious  brow, 
but  the  features  of  Eainsford's  face  were  delicate,  the 
skin  was  drawn  tightly  over  the  high  cheek-bones.  There 
was  an  extreme  melancholy  in  his  expression;  when 
defeat  had  begun  to  write  its  lines  upon  his  face,  over  the 
humiliating  stain,  Eesignation  had  laid  a  hand. 

"Well,  I'll  spare  you  wondering  about  me,  Fairfax," 
the  agent  said ;  "  I  am  just  a  plain  fellow,  that's  all,  and 
for  that  reason,  when  I  saw  that  one  of  the  hands  on  my 
pay-roll  was  clearly  a  gentleman,  and  a  very  young  one 
too,  it  interested  me,  and  since  I  have  been  to  Kenny's" 
—  he  hesitated  a  little  — "  since  I  have  heard  something 
about  you  from  that  good  soul,  why,  I  am  more  than 
interested,  I  am  determined !  " 

Fairfax,  his  head  thrown  back,  smoked  thoughtfully, 
and  Eainsford  noted  the  youthful  ness  of  the  line  of  his 
neck  and  face,  the  high  idealism  of  the  brow,  the  beautiful 
mouth,  the  breeding  and  the  sensitiveness  there. 

"Why,  it's  a  crime,  that's  what  it  is.  You  are  young, 
you're  a  boy.  Thank  God  for  it,  it  is  not  too  late.  Would 
you  care  to  tell  me  what  brought  you  here  like  this? 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  163 

I  won't  say  what  misfortune  brought  you  here,  Fairfax/* 
—  he  put  his  nervous  hand  to  his  lips  — "  but  what  folly 
on  your  part." 

Rainsford  took  for  granted  the  ordinary  reasons  for 
hard  luck  and  the  harvest  of  wild  oats. 

Fairfax  said,  "I  have  no  people,  Rainsford;  they  are 
all  dead." 

"But   you   have    influential    friends?" 
''  No,"  said  Fairfax,  "  not  one." 

:(  You  have  extraordinary  talent,  Fairfax." 

The  young  man  started.  "But  what  makes  you 
think  that?" 

"  Falutini  told  me." 

Fairfax  laughed  harshly.  "Poor  Tito.  He's  a  judge, 
[  daresay."  His  face  clouded,  grew  quite  stern  before 
Rainsford's  intent  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "I 
think  I  have  talent;  I  think  I  must  have  a  lot  somewhere, 
but  I  have  got  a  mighty  dangerous  Pride  and  it  has  driven 
me  to  a  sort  of  revenge  on  Fate,  an  arrogant  showing  of 
my  disdain  —  God  knows  of  what  and  of  whom."  More 
quietly  he  said:  "Whilst  my  mother  lived  I  could  not 
beg,  Rainsford,  I  couldn't  starve,  I  couldn't  scratch 
and  crawl  and  live  as  a  starving  artist  must  when  he  is 
making  his  way.  I  wanted  to  make  a  living  first,  and  I 
was  too  proud  to  take  the  thorny  way  an  artist  must." 

Fairfax  got  up,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
walked  across  Rainsford's  small  room.  It  was  in  excellent 
order,  plainly  furnished  but  well  supplied  with  the  things 
a  man  needs  to  make  him  comfortable.  There  were 
even  a  few  luxuries,  like  pillows  on  the  hard  sofa,  book- 
shelves filled  with  books  and  a  student's  lamp  soft  under 
a  green  shade.  As  he  turned  back  to  the  paymaster 
Fairfax  had  composed  himself  and  said  tranquilly  — 

"  I  reckon  you've  got  a  pretty  bad  note  against  me 
in  the  ledger,  haven't  you,  Rainsford?" 

"  Note  ?  "  repeated  the  other  vaguely.  "  Oh,  your  bad 
conduct  report.  Well,  rather." 

"  Who  has  got  my  job  on  Number  Twenty-four  ?  " 

"  Steve  Brodie." 

Fairfax  nodded.  "He  surely  does  know  how  to  drive 
an  engine  all  right,  and  so  do  I,  Rainsford." 

"  You  mustn't  run  any  more  engines,  Fairfax." 


164 

"  I  don't  want  to  come  back  to  West  Albany  and  to 
the  yards,"  said  the  engineer. 

"  I  haven't  much  influence  now,"  Rainsford  said 
musingly,  "but  I  have  some  friends  still.  I  want  you 
to  let  me  lend  you  some  money,  a  very  small  sum." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Fairfax's  face.  He  extended  his 
hand  impulsively. 

"  There,  Rainsford,  you  needn't  go  on.  You  are 
the  first  chap  who  has  put  out  a  rope  to  me.  I  did  have 
twenty-five  cents  given  me  once,  but  otherwise " 

"  I  mean  it  sincerely,  Fairfax." 

"  Rainsford,"  said  the  young  man,  with  emotion  in 
his  voice,  "  you  are  a  fine  brand  of  failure." 

"  Will  you  let  me  stand  by  you,  Fairfax  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  other,  "  I  will,  but  not  in 
the  way  you  mean.  I  reckon  I  must  have  felt  what  kind 
of  a  fellow  you  were  or  I  wouldn't  be  here.  At  any  rate 
you're  the  only  person  I  wanted  to  see.  I  quite  under- 
stand you  can't  take  me  back  at  the  yards,  and  I  don't 
want  to  drive  in  and  out  from  West  Albany.  Could  you 
do  anything  for  me  at  the  general  company,  Rainsford? 
Would  they  give  me  a  job  in  Albany?  I'd  take  a  local 
though  I'm  up  to  an  express." 

"  No,"  said  Rainsford,  "  you  mustn't  think  of  driving 
engines;  I  won't  lift  my  hand  to  help  you." 

"  It  is  all  I  can  do,"  returned  the  engineer  quietly, 
after  a  second,  "  all  I  want."  Then  he  said,  "  I've  got 
to  have  it.  .  .  ." 

"Why  I'll  lend  you  enough  money,  Fairfax,  to  pay 
your  passage  to  France !  " 

"  Stop ! "  cried  the  young  man  with  emotion,  "  it's 
too  late." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  other  warmly,  Fairfax's  voice 
and  personality  charming  him  as  it  charmed  others. 
"Why,  you  are  nothing  but  a  big,  headlong  boy!  You 
have  committed  a  tremendous  folly;  you've  got  art  at 
your  finger  tips.  Are  you  going  to  sweat  and  stew  all 
your  life  in  the  cab  of  an  engine?  Why,  you  are 
insane." 

"  Stop,"  cried  Fairfax  again,  "  for  the  love  of 
heaven.  .  .  ." 

Rainsford  regarded  him,  fascinated.     He  saw  in  him 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  165 

his  own  lost  promises,  his  own  lost  chance;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  through  this  young  man  he  might  in  a  way  buy 
back  the  lost  years. 

"  I'll  not  stop  till  I  have  used  every  means  to  make 
you  see  the  hideous  mistake  you're  making." 

"Rainsford,"  said  Antony,  paling,  "if  you  had  made 
me  this  offer  the  day  before  I  left  Nut  Street,  I  would 
have  been  in  France  by  this.  My  God ! "  he  murmured 
beneath  his  breath.  "  How  I  would  have  escaped !  " — 
checked  himself  with  great  control  for  so  young  a  man 
and  so  ardent  a  man.  He  was  a  foot  taller  than  his  desk- 
bowed  pale  companion,  and  he  laid  his  hand  impulsively 
on  his  chief's  shoulder. 

"  If  you  can  give  me  a  job,  Rainsford,  do  so,  will  you  ? 
I  know  \  have  no  right  to  ask  you,  after  the  way  I  have 
treated  the  Company,  but  I  am  married.  I  have  married 
Molly  Shannon.  You  know  her,  the  girl  at  Sheedy's." 
He  waited  a  second,  looking  the  other  man  in  the  eyes, 
then,  with  something  of  his  old  humour,  he  said,  "  There 
are  two  of  us  now,  Rainsford,  and  I  have  got  to  make  our 
living." 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

DEATH  does  not  always  make  the  deepest  graves.  His 
art  was  buried  deepest  of  all,  and  there  was  just  one 
interest  in  his  life,  and  that  was  not  his  wife.  He  was 
kind  to  her,  hut  if  he  had  beaten  her  she  would  have 
kissed  his  hand;  she  could  not  have  loved  him  better. 
Her  life  was  "  just  wrapped  round  him."  He  treated  her 
as  a  lady,  and  he  was  a  gentleman.  Her  manners  were 
always  soft  and  gentle,  coming  from  a  sweet  good  heart. 
She  grew  thinner,  and  her  pride  in  him  and  her  love  for 
him  and  her  humility  made  Molly  Fairfax  beautiful. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  cruelty  in  the  marriage  and  in 
their  mating.  It  was  no  one's  fault,  and  the  woman 
suffered  the  most.  Their  rooms  were  in  a  white  frame 
building  with  green  blinds,  one  of  the  old  wooden  houses 
that  remained  long  in  Albany.  It  did  not  overlook  the 
yards,  for  Fairfax  wanted  a  new'  horizon.  From  her 
window,  Molly  could  see  the  docks,  the  river,  the  night 
and  day  boats  as  they  anchored,  and  she  had  time  to 
watch  and  know  them  all.  Nothing  in  his  working  life 
or  in  his  associations  coarsened  Antony  Fairfax;  it  would 
have  been  better  for  him  had  it  done  so.  She  was  not 
married  to  an  engineer,  but  to  a  gentleman,  and  he  was 
as  chivalrous  to  her  as  though  she  had  been  the  woman  of 
his  dreams;  but  she  spent  much  of  the  time  weeping  and 
hiding  the  traces  from  him,  and  in  the  evenings,  when  he 
came  home  to  the  meal  that  she  prepared  each  day  with 
a  greater  skill  and  care,  sometimes  after  greeting  her  he 
would  not  break  the  silence  throughout  the  evening,  and 
he  did  not  dream  that  he  had  forgotten  her.  His  new 
express  engine  became  his  life.  He  drove  her,  cared  for 
her,  oiled  and  tended  her  with  art  and  passion.  There 
were  no  bad  notes  against  him  at  the  office.  His  records 

166 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  167 

were  excellent,  and  Rainsford  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  the  man  whom  he  had  recommended  was  in 
the  right  place.  The  irony  of  it  all  was  that  his  marrying 
Molly  Shannon  did  not  bring  him  peace,  although  it 
tranquillized  him,  and  kept  part  of  his  nature  silent.  He 
had  meditated  as  he  drove  his  engine,  facing  the  miles 
before  him  as  the  machine  ate  them  up,  and  these  miles 
began  to  take  him  into  other  countries.  There  was  a 
far-awayness  in  the  heavens  to  him  now,  and  as  he  used 
to  glance  up  at  the  telegraph  wires  and  poles  they  became 
to  him  masts  and  riggings  of  vessels  putting  out  to  sea,  and 
from  his  own  window  of  his  little  tenement  apartment  of 
two  bedrooms  and  a  kitchen,  he  watched  the  old  river 
boats  and  the  scows  and  the  turtle-like  canal  boats  that 
hugged  the  shore,  and  they  became  vessels  whose  bows  had 
kissed  ports  whose  names  were  thrilling,  and  in  the  nest 
he  had  made  his  own,  thinking  to  rest  there,  his  growing 
wings  began  to  unprison  and  the  nest  to  be  too  small. 
There  was  no  intoxication  in  the  speed  of  his  locomotive 
to  him,  and  he  felt  a  grave  sense  of  power  as  he  regulated 
and  slowed  and  accelerated,  and  the  smooth  response  of 
his  locomotive  delighted  him.  She  flew  to  his  hand,  and 
the  speed  gave  him  joy. 

At  lunch  time  Falutini  had  told  him  of  Italy,  and  the 
glow  and  the  glamour,  the  cypress  and  the  pines,  the  azure 
skies,  olive  and  grape  vines  brought  their  enchantment 
around  Fairfax,  until  No.  Ill  stood  in  an  enchanted 
country,  and  not  under  the  shed  with  whirling  snows  or 
blinding  American  glare  without.  He  exchanged  ideas  with 
Rainsford.  The  agent  became  his  friend,  and  one  Sunday 
Fairfax  led  him  into  the  Delavan  House,  and  George 
Washington  nearly  broke  his  neck  and  spilled  the  soup 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  uninteresting  patron  he  was  at  the 
moment  serving,  in  his  endeavour  to  get  across  the  floor 
to  Antony. 

"Yas,  sak,  Mistah  Kunnell  Fairfax,  sah!  Mighty 
glad  to  see  yo',  and  the  Capting  ?  —  Hyah  in  de  window  ?  " 

"Rainsford,"  said  the  young  man,  "isn't  it  queer? 
I  feel  at  home  here.  This  dingy  hotel  and  this  smiling 
old  nigger,  they  are  joys  to  me  —  joys.  To  this  very  table 
I  have  brought  my  own  bitter  food  to  eat  and  bitter  water 
to  drink,  and  half  forgotten  their  tastes  as  I  have  eaten 


168  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

the  Delavan  fare,  and  been  cheered  by  this  faithful  old 
darkey.  Perhaps  all  the  chaps  round  here  aren't  million- 
aires or  Depuysters,  but  there  are  no  railroad  men  such 
as  I  am  lunching  here,  and  I  breathe  again." 

The  two  ate  their  tomato  soup  with  relish.  Poor 
Molly  was  an  indifferent  cook,  and  the  food  at  Rainsford's 
hash-house  was  horrible. 

"  Don't  come  here  often  now,  Fairfax,  do  you?  " 

"  Every  Sunday." 

"Really?    And  do  you  bring  Mrs.  Fairfax?" 

"No,"  frowned  the  young  man,  "and  I  wonder  you 
ask.  Don't  you  understand  that  this  is  my  holiday? 
God  knows  I  earn  it." 

Rainsford  finished  his  soup.  The  plate  was  whisked 
away,  was  briskly  replaced  by  a  quantity  of  small  dishes 
containing  everything  on  the  bill  of  fare  from  chicken  to 
pot-pie,  and  as  Rainsford  meditated  upon  the  outlay,  he 
said  — 

"  She's  a  gentle,  lovely  creature,  Fairfax.  I  don't 
wonder  you  were  charmed  by  her.  She  has  a  heart  and 
a  soul." 

Fairfax  stared.     "  Why  when  did  you  see  her  ?  " 

He  had  never  referred  to  his  wife  since  the  day  he  had 
announced  his  marriage  to  his  chief. 

"  She  came  on  the  day  of  the  blizzard  to  the  office  to 
bring  a  parcel  for  you.  She  wanted  me  to  send  it  up  the 
line  by  the  Limited  to  catch  you  at  Utica." 

"  My  knit  waistcoat,"  nodded  Fairfax.  "  I  remember. 
It  saved  my  getting  a  chill.  I  had  clean  forgotten  it. 
She's  a  good  girl." 

Rainsford  chose  amongst  the  specimens  of  food. 

"  She  is  a  sweet  woman." 

Here  George  Washington  brought  Fairfax  the  Sunday 
morning  Tribune,  and  folded  it  before  his  gentleman  and 
presented  it  almost  on  his  knees. 

"  Let  me  git  ye  a  teenty  weenty  bit  mo'  salid, 
Kunnell?" 

Fairfax  unfolded  the  Tribune  leisurely.  "Bring  some 
ice-cream,  George,  and  some  srood  cigars,  and  a  little  old 
brandy.  Yes,  Rainsford.  it  isn't  poison." 

Fairfax  read  attentively,  and  his  companion  watched 
him  patiently,  his  own  face  lightened  by  the  companionship 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  169 

of  the  younger  man.  Fairfax  glanced  at  the  headlines 
of  the  Tribune,  said  "  By  George ! "  under  his  breath, 
and  bent  over  the  paper.  His  face  underwent  a  trans- 
formation; he  grew  pale,  read  fixedly,  then  laughed,  said 
"  By  George ! "  again,  folded  the  paper  up  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

The  ice-cream  was  brought  and  described  as  "  Panilla- 
politan  cream,  sah,"  and  Fairfax  lit  a  cigar  and  puffed  it 
fast  and  then  said  suddenly  — 

"  Do  you  know  what  hate  is,  Eainsf ord  ?  I  reckon 
you  don't.  Your  face  doesn't  bear  any  traces  of  it." 

"  Yes,  Fairfax,"  said  the  other,  "  I  know  what  it 
is  —  it's  a  disease  which  means  battle,  murder,  and  sudden 
death." 

The  young  man  took  the  paper  out  of  his  pocket  and 
unfolded  it,  and  Eainsford  was  surprised  to  see  his  hands 
tremble,  the  beautiful  clever  hands  with  the  stained 
finger  ends  and  the  clean,  beautiful  palm.  Falutini  did 
more  work  than  Fairfax  now.  He  slaved  for  his  master. 

"  Bead  that,  Eainsford."  He  tapped  a  headline  with 
his  forefinger.  "  It  sounds  like  an  event." 

THE  UNVEILING  or  THE  ABYDOS  SPHINX  IN  CENTRAL 

PARK 

CEDERSHOLM'S  WONDERFUL  PEDESTAL. 

THE  DIFFICULT  TRANSPORTATION  OF  THE  EGYPTIAN 

MONUMENT  FROM  THE  PORT  TO  THE  PARK. 

UNVEILING  TO  TAKE  PLACE  NEXT  SATURDAY. 

The  article  went  on  to  speak  of  the  dignified  marble 
support,  and  hinted  at  four  prehistoric  creatures  in  bronze 
which  were  supposed  to  be  the  masterpieces  of  modern 
sculpture. 

Eainsford  read  it  through.  "Very  interesting.  An 
event,  as  you  say,  Tony.  Cedersholm  has  made  himself 
a  great  reputation." 

"Damn  him!"  breathed  the  engineer.  His  heart  was 
beating  wildly,  he  felt  a  suffocation  in  his  breast.  A 
torrent  of  feeling  swept  up  in  him.  No  words  could  say 
what  a  storm  and  a  tempest  the  notice  caused. 

"Jealous,"  Eainsford  thought.  "Cedersholm  has  all 
that  poor  Fairfax  desires." 

Overcome    by    the    memories    the    headlines    recalled, 


170  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

overcome  by  his  anger  and  the  injustice,  Fairfax's  face 
grew  white. 

"Take  a  little  more  coffee,  Kunnell,"  said  George 
Washington  at  his  elbow. 

"  No."  Antony  repulsed  him  rudely.  "  Did  you  read 
it  all,  Bainsford?" 

"I  think  so.  I  dare  say  this  will  bring  Cedersholm 
close  on  a  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

"  It  will  pave  his  way  to  hell  one  day,  Eainsford,"  said 
the  engineer,  leaning  across  the  table.  "  It  will  indeed ! 
Why,  it  is  a  monument  of  injustice  and  dishonour.  Do 
you  know  what  that  Sphinx  rests  on,  Eainsford,  do  you 
know?" 

For  a  moment  the  railroad  agent  thought  his  friend 
had  lost  his  senses  brooding  over  his  discarded  art,  his 
spoiled  life. 

"Four  huge  prehistoric  creatures,"  Eainsford  read 
mildly. 

Fairfax's  lips  trembled.  "It  rests  on  a  man's  heart 
and  soul,  on  his  flesh  and  blood,  on  his  bleeding  wounds, 
Eainsford.  I  worked  in  Cedersholm's  studio,  I  slaved  for 
him  night  and  day  for  eighteen  months.  I  spilled  my 
youth  and  heart's  blood  there,  I  did  indeed."  His  face 
working,  he  tapped  his  friend's  arm  with  his  hand.  "  I 
made  the  moulds  for  those  beasts.  I  cast  them  in  bronze, 
right  there  in  his  studio.  Every  inch  of  them  is  mine, 
Eainsford,  mine.  By  ...  you  can't  take  it  in,  of  course. 
you  don't  believe  me,  nobody  would  believe  me,  that's 
why  I  can  do  nothing,  can't  say  anything,  or  I'd  be 
arrested  as  a  lunatic.  But  Cedersholm's  fame  in  this 
instance  is  mine,  and  he  has  stolen  it  from  me  and  shut 
me  out  like  a  whipped  dog.  He  thinks  I  am  poor  and 
unbefriended,  and  he  knows  that  I  have  no  case.  Why, 
he's  a  hound,  Eainsford,  the  meanest  hound  on  the  face 
of  the  earth." 

Eainsford  soothed  his  friend,  but  Fairfax's  voice  was 
low  with  passion,  no  one  could  overhear  its  intense  tone. 

"  Don't  for  a  moment  think  I  have  lost  my  senses. 
If  you  don't  believe  me,  give  me  a  pencil  and  paper  and 
I'll  sketch  you  what  I  mean." 

Eainsford  was  very  much  impressed  and  startled. 
"  If  what  you  say  is  true,"  he  murmured. 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  171 

And  Fairfax,  who  had  regained  some  of  his  control  —  he 
knew  better  than  any  one  the  futility  of  his  miserable 
adventure  —  exclaimed  — 

"  Oh,  it's  true  enough ;  but  there  is  nothing  to  do 
about  it.  Cedersholm  knows  that  better  than  any  one 
else." 

He  sat  back,  and  his  face  grew  dark  and  heavy  with 
its  brooding.  His  companion  watched  him  helplessly, 
only  half  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  statement.  Fair- 
fax lifted  his  eyes  and  naively  exclaimed  — 

"  Isn't  it  cruel,  Rainsf ord  ?  You  speak  of  failures ; 
did  you  ever  see  such  a  useless  one  as  this?  Cedersholm 
and  his  beasts  which  they  say  right  here  are  the  best 
things  in  modern  sculpture,  and  me  with  my  engine  and 
mJ  t***  He  stopped.  "  Give  me  the  bill/'  he  called  to 
George  Washington. 

The  old  darkey,  used  as  he  was  to  his  gentleman's  moods, 
found  this  one  stranger  than  usual. 

"  Anythin'  wrong  with  the  dinner,  Kunnell  ? "  he 
asked  tremulously.  "Very  sorry,  Capting.  Fust  time 
yo'-" 

Fairfax  put  the  money  in  his  hand.  "All  right, 
George,"  he  assured  kindly,  "your  dinner's  all  right  — 
don't  worry.  Good-bye."  And  he  did  not  say  as  he  usually 
did,  "  See  you  next  Sunday."  For  he  had  determined  to 
go  down  to  New  York  for  the  unveiling  of  the  monument. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  May  afternoon,  all  sunshine  and  sparkle,  had  a  wine 
to  make  young  hope  spring  from  old  graves  and  age  forget 
its  years,  and  youth  mad  with  its  handicaps;  a  day  to 
inspire  passion,  talent,  desire,  and  to  make  even  goodness 
take  new  wings. 

With  the  crowd  of  interested  and  curious,  Antony 
Fairfax  entered  Central  Park  through  the  Seventy-second 
Street  gate.  Lines  of  carriages  extended  far  into  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  he  walked  along  by  the  side  of  a  smart 
victoria  where  a  pretty  woman  sat  under  her  sunshade 
and  smiled  on  the  world  and  spring.  Fairfax  saw  that 
she  was  young  and  worldly,  and  thought  for  some  time  of 
his  mother,  of  women  he  might  have  known,  and  when 
the  victoria  passed  him,  caught  the  lady's  glance  as  her 
look  wandered  over  the  crowd.  A  May-day  party  of  school 
children  spread  over  the  lawn  at  his  left,  the  pole's  bright 
streamers  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  The  children  danced 
gaily,  too  small  to  care  for  the  unveiling  of  statues  or  for 
ancient  Egypt.  The  bright  scene  and  the  day's  gladness 
struck  Antony  harsh  as  a  glare  in  weakened  eyes.  He  was 
gloomy  and  sardonic,  his  heart  beating  out  of  tune,  his 
genial  nature  had  been  turned  to  gall. 

The  Mall  was  roped  off,  and  at  an  extempore  gate  a 
man  in  uniform  received  the  cards  of  admission.  Fairfax 
remembered  the  day  he  had  endeavoured  to  enter  the 
Field  Palace  and  his  failure. 

"  I'm  a  mechanic,"  he  said  hastily  to  the  gateman,  "  one 
of  Mr.  Cedersholm's  workmen." 

The  man  pushed  him  through,  and  he  went  in  with  a 
group  of  students  from  Columbia  College. 

In  a  corner  of  the  Mall,  on  the  site  he  had  indicated 
to  the  little  cousins,  rose  a  white  object  covered  by  a 

172 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  173 

sheeting,  which  fell  to  the  ground.  Among  the  two  hun- 
dred persons  gathered  were  people  of  distinction.  There 
was  to  be  speech-making.  Fairfax  did  not  know  this  or 
who  the  speakers  were  to  be.  All  that  he  knew  or  cared 
was  that  at  three  o'clock  of  this  Saturday  his  Beasts  — 
his  four  primitive  creatures  —  were  to  be  unveiled.  He 
wore  his  workday  clothes,  his  Pride  had  led  him  to  make 
the  arrogant  display  of  his  contempt  of  the  class  he  had 
deserted.  His  hat  was  pushed  back  on  his  blond  head. 
His  blue  eyes  sparkled  and  he  thrust  his  disfigured  hands 
into  his  pockets  to  keep  them  quiet.  The  lady  beside 
whose  carriage  he  had  stood  came  into  the  roped-off 
enclosure,  and  found  a  place  opposite  Fairfax.  Once 
more  her  eyes  fell  on  the  workman's  handsome  face.  He 
looked  out  of  harmony  with  the  people  who  had  gathered 
to  see  the  unveiling  of  Mr.  Cedersholm's  pedestal. 

For  the  speakers,  a  desk  and  platform  had  been 
arranged,  draped  with  an  American  flag.  Antony 
listened  coldly  to  the  first  address,  a  resume  of  the 
dynasty  in  whose  dim  years  the  Abydos  Sphinx  was 
hewn,  and  the  Egyptologist's  learning,  the  dust  he  stirred 
of  golden  tombs,  and  the  perfumes  of  the  times  that  he 
evoked,  were  lost  to  the  up-state  engineer  who  only  gazed 
on  the  veiled  monument. 

His  look,  however,  returned  to  the  desk,  when  C'eders- 
holm  took  the  place,  and  Fairfax,  from  the  sole  of  his  lame 
foot  to  his  fair  head,  grew  cold.  His  bronze  beasts  were 
not  more  hard  and  cold  in  their  metallic  bodies,  nor  was 
the  Sphinx  more  petrified.  Cedersholm  had  aged,  and 
seemed  to  Fairfax  to  have  warped  and  shrunk  and  to 
stand  little  more  than  a  pitiful  suit  of  clothes  with  a 
boutonniere  in  the  lapel  of  the  pepper-and-salt  coat.  There 
was  nothing  impressive  about  the  sleek  grey  head,  though 
his  single  eye-glass  gave  him  distinction.  The  Columbia 
student  next  to  Fairfax,  pushed  by  the  crowd,  touched 
Antony  Fairfax's  great  form  and  felt  as  though  he  had 
touched  a  colossus. 

Cedersholm  spoke  on  art,  on  the  sublimity  of  plastic 
expression.  He  spoke  rapidly  and  cleverly.  His  audience 
interrupted  him  by  gratifying  whispers  of  "  Bravo, 
bravo,"  and  the  gentle  tapping  of  hands.  He  was  clearly 
a  favourite,  a  great  citizen,  a  great  New  Yorker,  and  a 


174  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

great  man.  Directly  opposite  the  desk  was  a  delegation 
from  the  Century  Club,  Cedersholm's  friends  all  around 
him.  To  Fairfax,  they  were  only  brutes,  black  and  white 
creatures,  no  more  —  mummers  in  a  farce.  Cedersholm 
did  not  speak  of  his  own  work.  With  much  delicacy  he 
confined  his  address  to  the  past.  And  his  adulation  of 
antiquity  showed  him  to  be  a  real  artist,  and  he  spoke 
with  love  of  the  relics  of  the  perfect  age.  In  closing,  he 
said  — 

"Warm  as  may  be  our  inspirations,  great  as  may  be 
any  modern  genius,  ardent  as  may  be  our  labour,  let  each 
artist  look  at  the  Abydos  Sphinx  and  know  that  the  climax 
has  been  attained.  We  can  never  touch  the  antique 
perfection  again." 

Glancing  as  he  did  from  face  to  face,  Cedersholm 
turned  toward  the  Columbia  students  who  adored  him  and 
whose  professor  in  art  he  was.  Searching  the  young 
faces  for  sympathy,  he  caught  sight  of  Fairfax.  He 
remembered  who  he  was,  their  eyes  met.  Cedersholm 
drank  a  glass  of  water  at  his  hand,  bowed  to  his  audience, 
and  stepped  down.  He  moved  briskly,  his  head  a  little 
bent,  crossed  the  enclosure,  and  joined  the  lady  whom 
Fairfax  had  observed. 

"That,"  Fairfax  heard  one  of  his  neighbours  say,  "is 
Mr.  Cedersholm's  fiancee,  Mrs.  Faversham." 

Fairfax  raised  his  eyes  to  the  statue.  There  was  a 
slight  commotion  as  the  workmen  ranged  the  ropes. 
Then,  very  gracefully,  evidently  proud  as  a  queen,  the 
lady,  followed  by  Mr.  Cedersholm,  went  up  to  the  pedestal, 
took  the  ropes  in  her  gloved  hands,  and  there  was  a  flutter 
and  the  conventional  covering  slipped  and  fell  to  the  earth. 
There  was  an  exclamation,  a  murmur,  the  released  voices 
murmured  their  praise,  Cedersholm  was  surrounded. 
Fairfax,  immovable,  stood  and  gazed. 

The  pedestal  was  of  shell-pink  marble,  carved  in 
delicate  bas-relief.  Many  of  the  drawings  Antony  had 
made.  Isis  with  her  cap  of  Upper  and  Lower  Egypt, 
Hathor  with  the  eternal  oblation  —  the  Sphinx.  .  .  .  God 
and  the  Immortals  alone  knew  who  had  made  it. 

On  its  great,  impassive  face,  on  its  ponderous  body, 
there  was  no  signature,  no  name.  Under  the  four  corners, 
between  Sphinx  and  pedestal,  crouched  four  bronze 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  175 

creatures,  their  forms  and  bodies  visible  between  the 
stones  of  the  pink  pedestal  and  the  soft  blue  of  the  Egyptian 
granite.  The  bold,  severe  modelling,  their  curious 
primitive  conception,  the  life  and  realism  of  the  creatures 
were  poignant  in  their  suggestion  of  power.  The  colour 
of  the  bronze  was  beautiful,  would  be  more  beautiful  still 
as  the  years  went  on.  The  beasts  supported  the  Egyptian 
monument.  They  rested  between  the  pedestal  and  the 
Sphinx;  they  were  the  support  and  they  were  his.  They 
seemed,  to  the  man  who  had  made  them,  beautiful  indeed. 
Forgetting  his  outrage  and  his  revenge,  in  the  artist, 
Fairfax  listened  timidly,  eagerly,  for  some  word  to  be 
murmured  in  the  crowd,  some  praise  for  his  Beasts. 

He  heard  many. 

T;h"e  students  at  his  side  were  enthusiastic,  they  had 
made  studies  from  the  moulds;  moulds  of  the  Beasts  were 
already  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  The  young  critics 
were  lavish,  profuse.  They  compared  the  creatures  with 
the  productions  of  the  Ancients. 

"  Cedersholm  is  a  magician,  he  is  one  of  the  greatest 
men  of  his  time.  .  .  ." 

The  man  in  working  clothes  smiled,  but  his  expression 
was  gentler  than  it  had  been  hitherto.  He  lifted  his  soft 
hat  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  blond  hair  and  remained 
bareheaded  in  the  May  air  that  blew  about  him;  his 
fascinated  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  Abydos  Sphinx, 
magnetized  by  the  calm,  inscrutable  melancholy,  by  the 
serene  indifference.  The  stony  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
vistas  of  the  new  world,  the  crude  Western  continent,  as 
they  had  been  fixed  for  centuries  on  the  sands  of  the 
pathless  desert,  on  the  shifting  sands  that  relentlessly 
effaced  footsteps  of  artist  and  Pharaoh,  dynasty  and  race. 

Who  knew  who  had  made  this  wonder  ? 

How  small  and  puny  Cedersholm  seemed  in  his  pepper- 
and-salt  suit,  his  boutonniere  and  single  eye-glass,  his 
trembling  heart.  His  heart  trembled,  but  only  Fairfax 
knew  it ;  he  felt  that  he  held  it  between  his  hands.  "  He 
must  have  thought  I  was  dead,"  he  reflected.  "What 
difference  did  it  make,"  Fairfax  thought,  "whether  or 
not  the  Egyptian  who  had  hewn  the  Sphinx  had  murdered 
another  man  for  stealing  his  renown  ?  After  four  thousand 
years,  all  the  footsteps  were  effaced."  His  heart  grew 


176  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

somewhat  lighter,  and  between  himself  and  the  unknown 
sculptor  there  seemed  a  bond  of  union. 

The  students  and  the  master  had  drifted  away. 
Cedersholm  was  in  the  midst  of  his  friends.  Fairfax 
would  not  have  put  out  his  hand  to  take  his  laurel.  His 
spirit  and  soul  had  gone  into  communion  with  a  greater 
sculptor  of  the  Sphinx,  the  unknown  Egyptian.  Standing 
apart  from  the  crowd  where  Cedersholm  was  being  con- 
gratulated, Fairfax  remarked  the  lady  again,  and  that  she 
stood  alone  as  was  he.  She  seemed  pensive,  turning  her 
lace  parasol  between  her  hands,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 
The  young  man  supposed  her  to  be  dreaming  of  her  lover's 
greatness.  He  recalled  the  day,  two  years  ago,  when  with 
Bella  and  Gardiner  he  had  come  up  before  the  opening  in 
the  earth  prepared  for  the  pedestal.  "Wait,  wait,  my 
hearties !  "  he  had  said. 

Well,  one  of  them  had  gone  on,  impatient,  to  the 
unveiling  of  greater  wonders,  and  Antony  had  come  to 
his  unclaimed  festival  alone.  . 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HE  said  to  Rainsford  at  luncheon,  over  nuts  and  raisins, 
and  coffee  as  black  as  George  Washington's  smiling  face  — 

"I  reckon  you  think  I've  got  a  heart  of  cotton,  don't 
you?  I  reckon  you  think  I  don't  come  up  to  the  scratch, 
do  jou,  old  man  ?  I  assure  you  that  I  went  down  to  New 
York  seeing  scarlet.  I  had  made  my  plans.  Afterward, 
mind  you,  Rainsford,  not  of  course  before  a  whole  lot  of 
people, —  but  in  his  own  studio,  I  intended  to  tell  Ceders- 
holm  a  few  truths.  Upon  my  honour,  I  believe  I  could 
have  killed  him." 

Rainsford  held  a  pecan  nut  between  the  crackers 
which  he  pressed  slowly  as  he  listened  to  his  friend. 
Antony's  big  hand  was  spread  out  on  the  table;  its  grip 
would  have  been  powerful  on  a  man's  throat. 

"  We  often  get  rid  of  our  furies  on  the  way,"  said 
Rainsford,  slowly.  "We  keep  them  housed  so  long  that 
they  fly  away  unobserved  at  length.  And  when  at  last  we 
open  the  door,  and  expect  to  find  them  ready  with  their 
poisons,  they've  gone,  vanished  every  one." 

"  Not  in  this  case,"  Fairfax  shook  his  head.  "  I 
shall  call  on  them  all  some  day  and  they  will  all  answer 
me.  But  yesterday  wasn't  the  time.  You'll  think  me 
poorer-spirited  than  ever,  I  daresay,  but  the  woman  he 
is  going  to  marry  was  there,  a  pretty  woman,  and  she 
seemed  to  love  him." 

Fairfax  glanced  up  at  the  agent  and  saw  only  com- 
prehension. 

"Quite  right,  Tony."  Rainsford  returned  Fairfax's 
look  over  his  glistening  eyeglasses,  cracked  the  pecan  nut 
and  took  out  the  meat.  "  I  am  not  surprised." 

Antony,   who  had  taken  a  clipping  from  his   wallet, 

held  it  out. 

177 


178  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

"  Read  this.  I  cut  it  out  a  week  ago.  Yesterday  in 
the  Central  Park  old  ambitions  struck  me  hard.  Read  it." 

The  notice  was  from  a  Western  paper,  and  spoke  in 
detail  of  a  competition  offered  to  American  sculptors  by 
the  State  of  California,  for  the  design  in  plaster  of  a  tomb. 
The  finished  work  was  to  be  placed  in  the  great  new 
cemetery  in  Southern  California.  The  prize  to  be  awarded 
was  ten  thousand  dollars  and  the  time  for  handing  in  the 
design  a  year. 

"  Not  a  very  cheerful  or  inspiring  subject,  Tony." 

On  the  contrary,  Fairfax  thought  so.  He  leaned 
forward  eagerly,  and  Rainsford,  watching  him,  saw  a 
transfigured  man. 

"Death/'  said  the  engineer,  "has  taken  everything 
from  me.  Life  has  given  me  nothing,  old  man.  I  have  a 
feeling  that  perhaps  now,  through  this,  I  may  regain  what 
I  have  lost.  ...  I  long  to  take  my  chance." 

The  other  exclaimed  sympathetically,  "  My  dear 
fellow,  you  must  take  it  by  all  means." 

Fairfax  remained  thoughtful  a  moment,  then  asked 
almost  appealingly 

"Why,  how  can  I  do  so?  Such  an  effort  would 
cost  my  living,  her  living,  the  renting  of  a  place  to  work 
in.  .  .  ."  As  he  watched  Rainsford's  face  his  eyes  kindled. 

"  I  offered  to  lend  you  money  once,  Tony,"  recalled 
his  friend,  "  and  I  wish  to  God  you'd  taken  the  loan  then, 
because  just  at  present  — " 

The  Utter  Failure  raised  his  near-sighted  eyes,  and  the 
look  of  disappointment  on  the  bright  countenance  of  the 
engineer  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

"Never  mind."  Fairfax's  voice  was  forced  in  its 
cheerfulness.  "  Something  or  other  will  turn  up,  I 
shall  work  Sundays  and  half-days,  and  I  reckon  I  can  put 
it  through.  I  am  bound  to,"  he  finished  ardently,  "just 
bound  to." 

Rainsford  said  musingly,  "I  made  a  little  investment, 
but  it  went  to  pot.  I  hoped  —  I'm  always  hoping  —  but 
the  money  didn't  double  itself." 

The  engineer  didn't  hear  him.  He  was  already  think- 
ing how  he  could  transform  his  kitchen  into  a  studio, 
although  it  had  an  east  light.  Just  here  Rainsford  leaned 
over  and  put  his  hand  on  Antony's  sleeve. 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  179 

"  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  about  your  wife.  I 
don't  think  she's  very  well." 

"  Molly  ?  "  answered  his  companion  calmly.  "  She's 
all  right.  She  has  a  mighty  fine  constitution,  and  I  never 
heard  her  complain.  When  did  you  see  her,  Rainsford  ?  " 
He  frowned. 

"  Saturday,  when  you  were  in  New  York.  You  forgot 
to  send  your  pass-book,  and  I  went  for  it  myself." 

"  Well  ?  "  queried  Antony.     "  What  then  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Fairfax  gave  me  the  book,  and  I  stopped  to 
speak  with  her  for  a  few  moments.  I  find  her  very  much 
changed." 

The  light  died  from  the  young  man's  illumined  face 
where  his  visions  had  kindled  a  sacred  fire.  The  realities 
of  life  blotted  it  out. 

"  I'm  not  able  to  give  Molly  any  distractions,  that  you 
know." 

"  She  doesn't  want  them,  Tony."  Rainsford  looked 
kindly  and  affectionately,  almost  tenderly,  at  him,  and 
repeated  gently :  "  She  doesn't  want  amusement,  Tony." 

And  Fairfax  threw  up  his  head  with  a  sort  of  despair 
on  his  face  — 

"My    God,   Rainsford/'   he   murmured,  "what   can   I 

do?" 

"I'm  afraid  she's  breaking  her  heart,"  said  the  older 
man.  "  Poor  little  woman ! " 


CHAPTEK  XXVII 

IN  the  little  room  they  used  as  parlour-kitchen  and  which 
to  one  of  the  inhabitants  at  least  was  lovely,  Fairfax 
found  Molly  sitting  by  the  window  through  which  the 
spring  light  fell.  The  evening  was  warm.  Molly  wore  a 
print  dress,  and  in  her  bodice  he  saw  that  she  had  thrust 
a  spray  of  pink  geranium  from  the  window-boxes  that 
Antony  had  made  and  filled  for  her.  Nothing  that  had 
claim  to  beauty  failed  to  touch  his  senses,  and  he  saw  the 
charm  of  the  picture  in  the  pale  spring  light.  He  had 
softly  turned  the  door-handle,  and  as  there  was  a  hand- 
organ  playing  without  and  Molly  listening  to  the  music, 
he  entered  without  her  hearing  him. 

"Is  it  yourself ?"  she  exclaimed,  startled.  "You're 
home  early,  Tony." 

He  told  her  that  he  had  come  to  take  her  for  a  little 
walk,  and  as  she  moved  out  of  the  light  and  came  toward 
him,  he  thought  he  knew  what  Eainsford  had  meant. 
She  was  thin  and  yet  not  thin.  The  roundness  had  gone 
from  her  cheeks,  and  there  was  a  mild  sadness  in  her  eyes. 
Reproached  and  impatient,  suffering  as  keenly  as  she,  he 
was  nevertheless  too  kind  of  heart  and  nature  not  to  feel 
the  tragedy  of  her  life.  He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed 
her.  She  made  no  response,  and  feeling  her  a  dead  weight 
he  found  that  as  he  held  her  she  had  fainted  away.  He 
laid  her  on  the  bed,  loosened  her  dress,  and  bathed  her 
icy  temples.  Before  she  regained  consciousness  he  saw 
her  pallor,  and  that  she  had  greatly  changed.  He  was 
very  gentle  and  tender  with  her  when  she  came  to  herself; 
and,  holding  her,  said  — 

"Molly,  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  dear?  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me?" 

180 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  181 

She  had  thought  he  would  be  angry  with  her. 

He  exclaimed,  hurt:  "Am  I  such  a  brute  to  you, 
Molly?" 

Ah,  no;  not  that.  But  two  was  all  he  could  look  out 
for. 

He  kneeled,  supporting  her.  Oh,  if  he  could  only  be 
glad  of  it,  then  she  would  be  happy.  She'd  not  let  it 
disturb  him.  It  would  be  sure  to  be  beautiful  and  have 
his  eyes  and  hair. 

He  listened,  touched.  There  was  a  mystery,  a  beauty 
in  her  voice  with  its  rich  cadence,  her  trembling  breath,  her 
fast  beating  pulse,  her  excitement.  Below  in  the  street  the 
organ  played,  "  Gallagher's  Daughter  Belle,"  then  changed 
to  —  ah,  how  could  he  bear  it !  — "  My  Old  Kentucky 
Home."  Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  Motherhood  was 
sacred  to  him.  Was  he  to  have  a  son?  Was  he  to  be  a 
father?  He  must  make  her  happy,  this  modest,  un- 
demanding girl  whom  he  had  made  woman  and  a  wife. 
He  kissed  her  and  she  clung  to  him,  daring  to  whisper 
something  of  her  adoration  and  her  gratitude. 

When  after  supper  he  stood  with  her  in  the  window 
and  looked  out  over  the  river  where  the  anchored  steamers 
were  in  port  for  over  Sunday,  and  the  May  sunset  covered 
the  crude  brick  buildings  with  a  garment  of  glory,  he  was 
astonished  to  find  that  the  stone  at  his  heart  which  had 
lain  there  so  long  was  rolled  a  little  away.  He  picked  up 
the  geranium  which  Molly  had  worn  at  her  breast  and 
which  had  fallen  when  she  fainted,  and  put  it  in  his  button- 
hole. It  was  crushed  and  sweet.  Molly  whispered  that 
he  would  kill  her  with  goodness,  and  that  "  she  was  heart 
happy." 

"Are  you,  really?"  he  asked  her  eagerly.  "Then 
we'll  have  old  Rainsford  to  supper,  and  you  must  tell 
him  so ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FAIRFAX,  stirred  as  he  had  been  to  the  depths  by  his 
visit  to  New  York,  awake  again  to  the  voices  of  his  visions, 
could  give  but  little  of  himself  to  his  home  life  or  to  his 
work.  The  greatest  proof  of  his  kindly  heart  was  that  he 
did  not  let  Molly  see  his  irritation  or  his  agony  of  discon- 
tent. If  he  were  only  nothing  but  an  engineer  with  an 
Irish  wife !  Why,  why,  was  he  otherwise  ?  In  his  useless 
rebellion  the  visions  came  and  told  him  why  —  told  him 
that  to  be  born  as  he  was,  gifted  as  he  was,  was  the  most 
glorious  thing  and  the  most  suffering  thing  in  the  world. 

To  the  agent  who  had  accepted  the  Fairfax  hospitality 
and  come  to  supper,  Tony  said  — 

"To  ease  my  soul,  Peter,  I  want  to  tell  you  of  some- 
thing I  did." 

Molly  had  washed  the  dishes  and  put  them  away,  and, 
with  a  delicate  appreciation  of  her  husband's  wish  to  be 
alone  with  his  friend,  went  into  the  next  room. 

"After  mother  died  my  old  nigger  mammy  in  New 
Orleans  sent  me  a  packet  of  little  things.  I  could  never 
open  the  parcel  until  the  other  day.  Amongst  the 
treasures  was  a  diamond  ring,  Rainsford,  one  I  had  seen 
her  wear  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  I  took  it  to  a  jeweller 
on  Market  Street,  and  he  told  me  it  was  worth  a  thousand 
dollars." 

Here  Tony  remained  silent  so  long  that  his  com- 
panion said  — 

"  That's  a  lot  of  money,  Tony." 

"Well,  it  came  to  me,"  said  the  young  man  simply, 
"like  a  gift  from  her.  I  asked  them  to  lend  me  five 
hundred  dollars  on  it  for  a  year.  It  seems  that  it's  a 
peculiarly  fine  stone,  and  they  didn't  hesitate." 

Rainsford  was  smoking  a  peaceful  pipe,  and  he  held 
182 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  183 

the  bowl  affectionately  in  his  hand,  his  attention  fixed 
on  the  blond  young  man  sitting  in  the  full  light  of  the 
evening.  The  night  was  warm,  Fairfax  was  in  snowy 
shirt-sleeves,  his  bright  hair  cropped  close  revealed  the 
beautiful  lines  of  his  head;  he  was  a  powerful  man,  clean 
in  habits  of  body  and  mind,  and  his  expression  as  he 
talked  was  brilliant  and  fascinating,  his  eyes  profound  and 
blue.  Around  his  knees  he  clasped  the  hands  that  drove 
an  engine  and  ached  to  model  in  plaster  and  clay.  His 
big  shoe  was  a  deformity,  otherwise  he  was  superb. 

"I've  taken  a  studio,  Rainsford,"  he  smiled.  "Tito 
Falutini  found  it  for  me.  It  is  a  shed  next  to  the  lime- 
kiln in  Canal  Street.  I've  got  my  material  and  I'm  going 
to  begin  my  work  for  the  California  competition." 

TJie  older,  to  whom  enthusiasm  was  as  past  a  joy  as 
success  was  a  dim  possibility,  said  thoughtfully  — 

"  When  will  you  work  ?  " 

"  Sundays,  half-holidays  and  nights.  God ! "  he  ex- 
claimed in  anticipation,  holding  out  his  strong  arms,  "  it 
seems  too  good  to  be  true !  " 

And  Rainsford  said,  "  I  think  I  can  contrive  to  get 
Saturdays  off  for  you.  The  Commodore  is  coming  up  next 
week.  He  owes  me  a  favour  or  two.  I  think  I  can  make 
it  for  you,  old  man." 

There  was  a  little  stir  in  the  next  room.  Fairfax  called 
"  Molly !  "  and  she  came  in.  She  might  have  been  a  lady. 
Long  association  with  Fairfax  and  her  love  had  taught 
her  wonders.  Her  hair  was  carefully  arranged  and  brushed 
until  it  shone  like  glass.  Her  dress  was  simple  and  refined ; 
her  face  had  the  beauty  on  it  that  a  great  and  unselfish 
love  sheds. 

"  It  means,"  said  Rainsford  to  himself  as  he  rose  and 
placed  a  chair  for  her,  "that  Molly  will  be  left  entirely 
alone." 


CHAPTEE  XXIX 

WHAT  Rainsford  procured  for  him  in  the  Saturday 
holidays  was  worth  the  weight  of  its  hours  in  gold.  This, 
with  Sundays,  gave  him  two  working  days,  and  no  lover 
went  more  eagerly  to  his  mistress  than  Antony  to  the 
barracks  where  he  toiled  and  dreamed.  He  began  with 
too  mad  enthusiasm,  lacking  the  patience  to  wait  until 
his  conceptions  ripened.  He  roughly  made  his  studies  for 
an  Angel  of  the  Resurrection,  inspired  by  the  figure  in 
the  West  Albany  Cemetery.  As  he  progressed  he 
was  conscious  that  his  hand  had  been  idle,  as  far  as 
his  art  was  concerned,  too  long;  his  fingers  were  blunted 
and  awkward,  and  many  an  hour  he  paced  his  shed  in 
agony  of  soul,  conscious  of  his  lack  of  technique.  He 
was  too  engrossed  to  be  aware  of  the  passing  months,  but 
autumn  came  again  with  its  wonderful  haze,  veiling  death, 
decay  and  destruction,  and  Fairfax  found  himself  but 
little  more  advanced  than  in  May,  when  he  had  shut  himself 
in  his  studio,  a  happy  man. 

He  grew  moody  and  tried  to  keep  his  despair  from  his 
wife,  for  not  the  least  of  his  unrest  was  caused  by  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  selfish  with  her  for  the  sake  of  his 
art.  By  October  he  had  destroyed  a  hundred  little 
figures,  crushed  his  abortive  efforts  to  bits,  and  made  a 
clean  sweep  of  six  months'  work  and  stood  among  the 
ruins.  He  never  in  these  moments  thought  of  his  wife 
as  a  comforter,  having  never  opened  his  heart  to  her 
regarding  his  art.  He  shrank  from  giving  her  entrance 
into  his  sanctuaries.  He  was  alone  in  his  crisis  of  artistic 
infecundity. 

On  this  Sunday  morning  he  left  his  studio  early, 
turned  the  key  and  walked  up  Eagle  Street  toward  the 
church  he  had  not  entered  since  he  was  married.  Led 

184 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  185 

by  discontent  and  by  a  hope  that  beneath  the  altar 
in  his  old  place  he  might  find  peace  and  possibly  hear  a 
voice  which  would  tell  him  as  every  creator  must  be 
told  —  HOW.  He  listened  to  the  music  and  to  the  Litany, 
the  rich,  full  voices  singing  their  grave,  solemn  pagan 
appeal;  but  the  sensuous  ecstasy  left  Fairfax  indifferent 
and  cold.  To-day  there  were  no  visions  around  the  altar 
through  whose  high  windows  came  the  autumn  glory 
staining  the  chancel  like  the  Grail.  His  glance  wandered 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  church  where  in  the  front  pew 
were  the  young  scholars  of  Canon's  School,  a  bevy  of 
girls ;  and  he  thought  with  a  pang  of  Bella.  She  wouldn't 
be  little  Bella  Carew  much  longer,  for  she  was  nearly 
sixteen,  charming  little  Bella !  He  thought  of  the  statue 
he  had  made  and  which  had  been  so  wantonly  destroyed, 
and  'with  this  came  the  feeling  that  everything  he  touched 
had  been  warped  and  distorted.  Ashamed  of  this  point 
of  view,  he  sighed  and  rose  with  the  others  at  the  Creed. 
He  repeated  it  with  conviction,  and  at  the  words,  "  Ees- 
urrection  and  the  Life  Everlasting,"  he  dwelt  upon 
"  Everlasting  Life "  as  though  he  would  draw  from  the 
expression  such  consolation  as  should  make  him  belittle 
the  transient  show  with  its  mass  of  failures  and  unhappy 
things,  and  render  immortal  only  that  in  him  which  was 
still  aspiring,  still  his  highest.  He  was  glad  to  see  instead 
of  the  curate  a  man  with  a  red  hood  mount  the  pulpit 
steps,  and  he  knew  it  was  the  Canon  himself.  With  a 
new  interest  in  his  mind  he  sat  erect. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  to  the  North  a 
man  whom  he  could  revere  and  admire  stood  before  him. 
The  Canon's  clear-cut  heavenly  face,  his  gracious  voice, 
his  outstretched  hand  as  he  blessed  his  people,  made  an 
agreeable  impression  on  the  young  man  out  of  his  element, 
nearly  shipwrecked  and  entirely  alone.  It  occurred  to 
him  to  speak  to  the  Canon  after  service;  but  what  should 
he  say?  What  appeal  could  he  make?  He  was  an 
engineer  married  to  a  Eoman  Catholic  woman  of  the  other 
class,  too  poor  a  specimen  of  his  own  class  to  remain  in 
it.  Since  his  marriage  he  had  felt  degraded  in  society, 
out  of  place.  If  the  Canon  had  advice  to  give  him,  it 
would  be  to  shut  up  his  studio  and  devote  himself  to  his 
wife. 


186  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

He  wandered  slowly  out  of  the  building  amongst  the 
others  into  the  golden  autumn  day,  and  the  music  of  the 
organ  rolled  after  him  like  a  rich  blessing.  He  waited 
to  let  the  line  of  schoolgirls  pass  him,  and  all  of  a  sudden 
as  he  looked  at  them  their  ranks  broke,  he  heard  a  cry, 
an  exclamation,  and  a  call  — 

"  Cousin  Antony! " 

Before  she  could  be  prevented  she  had  flown  to  him. 
Not  throwing  herself  against  him  in  the  old  mad  sweet- 
ness of  her  impulsive  nature, —  both  pretty  gloved  hands 
were  held  out  to  him  and  her  upturned  face  lifted  all 
sparkle  and  brilliance,  her  red  lips  parted.  "  Oh,  Cousin 
Antony ! " 

Both  Fairfax's  hands  held  hers. 

"  Quick ! "  she  cried,  "  before  Miss  Jackson  comes  out. 
Where  do  you  live?  When  will  you  come  to  see  me? 
But  you  can't  come!  We're  not  allowed  to  have  gentle- 
men callers!  When  can  I  come  to  see  you?  Dear 
Cousin  Antony,  how  glad  I  am  !  " 

"  Bella !  "  he  murmured,  and  gazed  at  her. 

The  rank-and-file  of  schoolgirls,  giggling,  outraged  and 
diverted,  passed  them  by,  and  the  stiff  teachers  were  the 
last  to  appear  from  the  church. 

"Tell  me,"  Bella  repeated,  "where  do  you  live?  I'll 
write  you.  I've  composed  tons  of  letters,  but  I  forgot  the 
number  in  Nut  Street.  Here's  Miss  Jackson,  the  horrid 
thing!  Hurry,  Cousin  Antony." 

He  said,  "Forty,  Canal  Street,"  and  wondered  why  he 
had  told  her. 

Miss  Jackson  and  Miss  Teeter  passed  the  two,  and 
were  so  absorbed  in  discussing  the  text  of  the  sermon 
that  neither  saw  Mistress  Bella  Carew. 

"I'm  safe/'  she  cried,  "the  old  cats!  The  girls  will 
never  tell  —  they're  all  too  sweet.  But  I  must  go ;  I'll  just 
say  I've  dropped  my  Prayer-book.  There,  you  take  it ! " 

And  she  was  gone. 

Antony  stood  staring  at  the  flitting  figure  as  Bella 
ran  after  the  others  down  the  steps  like  an  autumn  leaf 
blown  by  a  light  wind.  She  wore  a  brown  dress  down  to 
her  boot  tops  (her  boots  too  were  brown  with  bows  at 
the  tops) ;  her  little  brown  gloves  had  held  his  hand  in 
what  had  been  the  warmest,  friendliest  clasp  imaginable. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  187 

She  wore  a  brown  hat  with  a  plume  in  it  that  drooped 
and  dangled,  and  Antony  had  looked  into  her  brown  eyea 
and  seen  their  bright  affection  once  more. 

Well,  he  had  known  that  she  was  going  to  be  like  this! 
Not  quite,  though;  no  man  ever  knows  what  a  woman 
can  be,  will  be,  or  ever  is.  He  felt  fifty  years  old  as  he 
walked  down  the  steps  and  turned  towards  Canal  Street 
to  the  door  he  had  fastened  four  hours  before  on  his 
formless  visions. 


CHAPTEE  XXX 

HE  did  not  go  home  that  day. 

Towards  late  evening  he  sat  in  the  twilight,  his  head  in 
his  hands,  a  pile  of  smoked  cigarettes  and  Bella's  Prayer- 
book  on  the  table  before  him.  ...  In  the  wretched 
afternoon  he  had  read,  one  after  another,  the  ser- 
vices: Marriage  .  .  .  for  better  or  for  worse,  till  death  do 
us  part.  .  .  .  The  Baptismal  service,  and  the  Burial  for 
the  Dead. 

At  six  he  rose  with  a  sigh,  and,  though  it  was  growing 
dark,  he  began  to  draw  aimlessly,  and  Eainsford,  when  he 
came  in,  found  Tony  sketching,  and  the  young  man  said  — 

"  You  don't  give  a  fellow  much  of  your  company  these 
days,  Peter.  Have  a  cigarette?  I've  smoked  a  whole 
box  myself." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  working,  Fairfax." 

"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am,"  Fairfax  exclaimed; 
"  but  the  light's  bad." 

Putting  aside  his  drawing-board,  he  turned  to  his 
friend,  and,  with  an  ardour  such  as  he  had  not  displayed 
since  the  old  days  at  the  Delavan,  began  to  tell  of  his 
conception. 

"  I  have  given  up  my  idea  of  a  single  figure.  I  shall 
make  a  bas-relief,  a  great  circular  tablet,  if  you  under- 
stand, a  wall  with  curving  sides,  and  emblematic  figures 
in  high  relief.  It  will  be  a  mighty  fine  piece  of  work, 
Eainsford,  if  it's  ever  done." 

"  What  will  your  figures  be,  Tony  ?  " 

"Ah,  they  won't  let  me  see  their  forms  or  faces  yet." 
He  changed  the  subject.  "What  have  you  done  with 
your  Sunday,  old  man  ?  Slept  all  day  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  been  sitting  for  an  hour  or  two  with  Mrs. 
Fairfax." 

188 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  189 

Molly's  husband  murmured,  "I'm  a  brute,  and  no 
one  knows  it  better  than  I  do." 

Eainsford  made  no  refutation  of  his  friend's  accusation 
of  himself,  but  suggested  — 

"  She  might  bring  her  sewing  in  the  afternoons,  Tony ; 
it  would  be  less  lonely  for  her  ?  " 

Fairfax  noticed  the  flush  that  rose  along  the  agent's 
thin  cheek. 

"  By  Jove ! "  Fairfax  reflected.  "  I  wonder  if  old 
Eainsford  is  in  love  with  Molly  ?  "  The  supposition  did 
not  make  him  jealous. 

The  two  men  went  home  together,  and  Eainsford 
stayed  to  supper  as  he  had  taken  a  habit  of  doing,  for 
Fairfax  did  not  wish  to  be  alone.  But  when  at  ten 
o'clock  the  guest  had  gone  and  the  engineer  and  his  wife 
were 'alone  together  in  their  homely  room,  Fairfax  said  — 

"  Don't  judge  me  too  harshly,  Molly." 

Judge  him  ?     Did  he  think  she  did  ? 

"  You  might  well,  my  dear." 

He  took  the  hand  that  did  all  the  work  for  his  life  and 
home  and  which  she  tried  to  keep  as  "  ladylike "  as  she 
knew,  and  said,  his  eyes  full  on  her  — 

"  I  do  the  best  I  can.  I'm  an  artist,  that's  the  truth 
of  it!  There's  something  in  me  that's  stronger  than 
anything  else  in  the  world.  I  reckon  it's  talent.  I  don't 
know  how  good  it  is  or  how  ignoble;  but  it's  brutal,  and 
I've  got  to  satisfy  it,  Molly." 

Didn't  she  know  it,  didn't  Mr.  Eainsford  tell  her? 
Didn't  she  want  to  leave  him  free? 

"  You're  the  best  girl  in  the  world ! "  he  cried  con- 
tritely, and  checked  the  words,  "You  should  never  have 
married  me." 

She  couldn't  see  the  struggle  in  him,  but  she  could 
observe  how  pale  he  was.  She  never  caressed  him.  She 
had  long  since  learned  that  it  was  not  what  he  wanted; 
but  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  head,  for  he  was  sitting  on 
the  bed,  and  it  might  have  been  his  mother  who  spoke  — 

"You're  clear  tired  out,"  she  said  gently.  ^' Will  I 
fix  up  a  bed  for  you  in  the  kitchen  to-night?  You'll  lie 
better." 

He  accepted  gratefully.  To-morrow,  being  Monday, 
was  the  longest  day  in  the  week  for  him. 


190  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

He  could  not  permit  himself  to  go  to  church  again,  but 
during  the  next  few  days  he  half  expected  to  hear  a  knock 
at  the  door  which  should  announce  Bella.  But  she  did 
not  come,  and  he  was  glad  that  she  did  not,  and  more  than 
once,  in  the  evening,  he  walked  around  the  school  building, 

up Street,  looking  at  the  lighted  windows  of  the  house 

where  the  doves  were  safely  coted,  and  thought  of  the 
schoolgirl,  with  her  books  and  her  companions. 

"...  Not  any  more  perfectly  straight  lines,  Cousin 
Antony  .  .  ." 

And  the  leaves  fell,  piles  of  them,  red  and  yellow,  and 
were  swept  and  burned  in  fires  whose  incense  was  sweet  to 
him,  and  the  trees  in  the  school  garden  grew  bare. 

In  the  first  days  of  his  Albany  life,  his  Visions  had  used 
to  meet  him  in  those  streets;  now  there  seemed  to  be  no 
inspiration  for  him  anywhere,  and  he  wondered  if  it  were 
his  marriage  that  had  levelled  all  pinnacles  for  him  or 
his  daily  mechanical  work?  His  associations  with  Tito 
Falutini?  Or  if  it  were  only  that  he  was  no  sculptor  at 
all,  not  equal  to  his  dreams ! 

In  the  leaf-strewn  street,  near  the  Canon's  School,  he 
called  on  the  Images  to  return,  and,  half  halting  in  his 
walk,  he  looked  up  at  one  lighted  window  as  if  he  expected 
to  see  a  girlish  figure  there  and  catch  sight  of  a  friendly 
little  hand  that  waved  to  him;  but  there  was  no  such 
greeting. 

That  afternoon,  as  he  went  into  his  studio,  some  one 
rose  from  the  sofa,  and  his  wife's  voice  called  to  him  — 

"Don't  be  startled,  Tony.  I  just  came  for  awhile  to 
sit  with  you." 

He  was  amazed.  Molly  had  never  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  workroom  before,  not  having  been  in- 
vited. She  had  brought  her  sewing.  It  was  so  lonely  in 
the  little  rooms,  she  wondered  if  it  wasn't  lonesome  in  the 
studio  as  well  ? 

Smoking  and  walking  to  and  fro,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  Fairfax  glanced  at  his  wife  as  she  took  up  the 
little  garments  on  which  she  was  at  work.  Her  skin  was 
stainless  as  a  lily  save  here  and  there  where  the  golden 
fleck  of  a  freckle  marred  its  whiteness.  Her  reddish  hair, 
braided  in  strands,  was  wound  flatly  around  her  head. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  191 

There  was  a  purity  in  her  face,  a  Mystery  that  was  holy 
to  him.  He  crossed  over  to  her  side  and  lit  the  lamp  for 
her. 

"Who  suggested  your  coming?    Rainsford?" 

"  Nobody.     I  wanted  to  come,  just/' 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa  near  her. 
"  I  can't  work !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I've  not  been  able  to 
do  anything  for  weeks.  I  reckon  I'm  no  good.  I'm  going 
to  let  the  whole  thing  go." 

Molly  folded  her  sewing  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
"  Would  you  show  me  what  you've  been  workin'  at, 
Tony?" 

The  softness  of  her  brogue  had  not  gone,  but  she  had 
been  a  rapid  pupil  unconsciously  taught,  and  her  speech 
had  improved. 

"I've  destroyed  most  of  my  work,"  he  said,  hope- 
lessly ;  "  but  this  is  something  of  the  new  scheme  I've 
planned." 

He  went  over  to  the  other  part  of  the  studio  and  un- 
covered the  clay  in  which  he  had  begun  to  work,  and 
mused  before  it.  He  took  some  clay  from  the  barrel, 
mixed  it  and  began  to  model.  Molly  watched  him. 

"  I  get  an  idea,"  he  murmured ;  "  but  when  I  go  to 
fix  it  it  escapes  and  eludes  me.  It  has  no  form.  I  want 
a  group  of  figures  in  the  foreground  and  the  idea  of  distance 
and  far-away  on  the  other  side." 

"  It  will  be  lovely,  Tony,"  she  encouraged  him.  "  I 
mind  the  day  we  walked  in  the  cemetery  for  the  first  time 
and  you  looked  at  the  angel  so  long." 

"Yes."  He  was  kneeling,  bending  forward,  putting 
the  clay  on  with  his  thumb. 

"  Ever  since  then  " —  Molly's  tone  was  meditative  — 
"  that  angel  seems  like  a  friend  to  me.  Many's  the  time 
when  there's  a  hard  thing  to  do  he  seems  to  open  the  door 
and  I  go  through,  and  it's  not  so  hard." 

She  was  imaginative,  Fairfax  knew  it.  She  was 
superstitious,  like  the  people  of  her  country.  The  things 
she  said  were  often  full  of  fancy,  like  the  legends  and 
stories  of  the  Celts ;  but  now  he  hardly  heard  her,  for  he 
was  working,  and  she  went  back  to  her  task  by  the  lamp, 
and,  under  the  quiet  of  her  presence  and  its  companion- 
ship, his  modelling  grew.  He  heard  her  finally  stir,  and 


192  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

the  clock  struck  seven,  and  they  had  had  no  supper. 
Until  she  crossed  the  floor,  he  did  not  speak.  Then  he 
turned  — 

"  I'll  work  on  a  little  longer.  I  want  to  finish  this 
hand." 

"  Take  your  time,  Tony.  I'll  be  going  home  slowly, 
anyway." 

She  was  at  the  door,  stood  in  it,  held  it  half-open,  her 
arm  out  along  the  panel  looking  back  at  him.  Her  figure 
was  in  the  shadow,  but  the  light  fell  on  her  face,  on  her 
hair  and  on  her  hand.  The  unconscious  charm  of  her 
pose,  her  slow  pause,  her  attitude  of  farewell  and  waiting, 
the  solemnity  of  it,  the  effect  of  light  and  shadow,  struck 
Fairfax. 

"  Molly,"  he  cried,  "wait!" 

But  she  had  dropped  her  arm.  "You'll  be  coming 
along,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  and  it's  getting  late." 

He  found  that  the  spell  for  work  was  broken  after  she 
left,  though  a  fleeting  idea,  a  picture,  an  image  he  could 
not  fix,  tantalized  him.  He  followed  his  wife.  He  had 
passed  the  most  peaceful  hour  in  his  Canal  Street  studio 
since  he  had  signed  the  lease  with  the  money  of  his  mother's 
ring.  He  would  have  told  Molly  this,  but  Rainsford  was 
there  for  supper. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MOLLY  came  and  sat  with  him  Saturday  afternoons  and 
Sundays.  Fairfax  made  studies  of  his  wife  as  she  sewed, 
a  modern  conception  of  a  woman  sitting  under  a  lamp, 
her  face  lifted,  dreaming.  He  told  Rainsford  that  when 
the  lease  was  up  he  should  vacate  the  studio,  for  he  could 
not  go  on  with  his  scheme  for  the  monument.  He  had 
the  memories  of  Molly's  coming  to  him  during  the  late 
autumn  and  winter  afternoons.  The  remembrance  'of 
these  holidays  soothed  and  pardoned  many  faults  and 
delinquencies.  She  seemed  another  Molly  to  the  Sheedy 
counter  girl,  the  Troy  collar  factory  girl,  and  an  indefinable 
Presence  came  with  her,  lingered  as  she  sewed  or  read 
some  book  she  had  picked  up,  and  if  Fairfax  the  artist 
watched  the  change  and  transformation  of  her  face  as  it 
refined  and  thinned,  grew  more  delicate  and  meditative, 
it  was  Fairfax  the  man  who  recalled  the  picture  afterward. 

She  was  exceedingly  gentle,  very  silent,  ready  with 
a  word  of  encouragement  and  admiration  if  he  spoke  to 
her.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  art  he  adored,  but  seemed 
to  know  his  temperament  and  to  understand.  She  posed 
tranquilly  while  the  short  days  met  the  early  nights;  she 
disguised  her  fatigue  and  her  ennui,  so  that  he  never  knew 
she  grew  tired,  and  the  Presence  surrounded  her  like  an 
envelope,  until  Antony,  drawing  and  modelling,  wondered 
if  it  were  not  the  soul  of  the  child  about  to  be  born  to 
him,  and  if  from  the  new  emotion  his  inspiration  would 
not  stir  and  bless  him  at  the  last? 

What  there  was  of  humour  and  fantasy  in  her  Irish 
heart,  how  imaginative  and  tender  she  was,  he  might  have 
gathered  in  those  hours,  if  he  had  chosen  to  talk  with  her 
and  make  her  his  companion.  But  he  was  reserved, 
mentally  and  spiritually,  and  he  kept  the  depths  of  himself 

103 


194  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

down,  nor  could  he  reveal  his  soul  which  from  boyhood 
he  had  dreamed  to  give  to  One  Woman  with  his  whole 
being.  He  felt  himself  condemned  to  silence  and  only 
partially  to  develop,  and  no  one  but  Molly  Fairfax,  with 
her  humility  and  her  admiration,  could  have  kept  him  from 
unholy  dreams  and  unfaithfulness. 

His  life  on  the  engine  was  hard  in  the  winter.  He  felt 
the  cold  intensely,  and  as  his  art  steadily  advanced,  his 
daily  labour  in  the  yards  grew  hateful,  and  he  pushed  the 
days  of  the  week  through  till  Sunday  should  come  and  he 
be  free.  His  face  was  set  and  white  when  Rainsford 
informed  him  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  give  him 
"  Saturdays  off  "  any  longer.  Antony  turned  on  his  heel 
and  left  the  office  without  response  to  his  chief,  and  thought 
as  he  strode  back  to  his  tenement :  "  It's  Peter's  personal 
feeling.  He's  in  love  with  Molly,  and  those  days  in  the 
studio  gall  him." 

Molly,  who  was  lying  down  when  he  came  in,  brushed 
her  hand  across  her  eyes  as  if  to  brush  away  whatever  was 
there  before  he  came.  She  took  his  hat  and  coat;  his 
slippers  and  warm  jacket  were  before  the  stove. 

"  Rainsford  has  knocked  me  off  my  Saturdays,"  he  said 
bitterly. 

She  stopped  at  the  hook,  the  things  in  her  hand. 
"  That's  hard  on  you,  Tony,  and  you  getting  on  so  well 
with  your  work." 

She  didn't  say  that  she  could  not  have  gone  on  any 
more  .  .  .  that  the  walk  she  took  the  week  before  to  Canal 
Street  had  been  her  last;  but  Fairfax,  observing  her, 
rendered  keen  by  his  own  disappointment,  understood.  He 
called  her  to  him,  made  her  sit  down  on  the  sofa  beside  him. 

"  Peter  has  been  better  to  you  than  I  have,"  he  said 
sadly.  "  I've  tired  you  out,  my  dear,  and  I've  been  a 
selfish  brute  to  you." 

He  saw  that  his  words  gave  her  pain,  and  desisted. 
He  was  going  to  be  nothing  more  from  henceforth  but  an 
engineer.  He  would  shut  the  studio  and  take  her  out  on 
Sundays.  She  received  his  decision  meekly,  without 
rebuffing  it,  and  he  said  — 

"Molly,  if  I  had  not  come  along,  I  reckon  you  would 
have  married  Peter  Rainsford.  There!  Don't  look  like 
that ! " 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  195 

"  Tony,"  she  replied,  "  I'd  rather  be  wretched  with  you 
—  if  I  were,  and  I'm  not,  dear.  I'd  rather  be  unhappy 
along  of  you  than  the  happiest  queen." 

He  kissed  her  hand  with  a  gallantry  new  to  her  and 
which  made  her  crimson,  and  half  laugh  and  half  cry. 

She  went  early  to  bed,  and  Antony,  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
raked  down  the  coals,  covered  the  fire  in  the  stove,  heard 
the  clock  tick  and  the  whistles  of  the  boat  on  the  river. 
In  the  silence  of  the  winter  night,  as  it  fell  around  him,  he 
thought :  "  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  try  to  make  her  happy, 
even  if  I  cut  out  my  miserable  talent  and  kill  it."  And  as 
he  straightened  himself  he  felt  the  Presence  there.  The 
solemn  Presence  that  had  come  with  her  to  his  workshop 
and  kept  him  company,  and  it  was  so  impressive  that  he 
passe/1-  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  though  dazed,  and 
opened  the  door  of  his  bedroom  to  see  her  and  be  assured. 
She  was  already  asleep;  by  her  side,  the  little  basket 
prepared,  waited  for  the  life  to  come.  He  stepped  in 
softly,  and  his  heart  melted.  He  knelt  down  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  pillow  by  her  side,  and  without  waking  she 
turned  her  face  toward  him  in  her  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

HE  did  not  go  to  the  studio  for  a  month,  but  though  he 
remained  with  her  the  poor  girl  profited  little  by  his 
company.  He  smoked  countless  cigarettes,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  doctor's  bills  to  look  forward  to. 
In  the  long  winter  evenings  he  read  books  that  he  fetched 
from  the  library  while  the  blizzards  and  storms  swept 
round  the  window,  and  the  next  day  his  duties  stared  him 
in  the  face.  He  dreamed  before  the  stove,  his  cigarette 
between  his  fingers,  and  Molly  watched  him;  but  Rains- 
ford,  when  he  came,  did  not  find  her  any  more  alone. 

Finally,  in  the  last  Sunday  of  January,  after  the  noon 
dinner,  she  fetched  him  his  coat  and  muffler. 

"  I  can't  let  you  stay  home  any  more  like  this,  Tony," 
she  told  him.  "  Take  your  things  and  go  to  the  studio ; 
I'm  sure  you're  dying  to,  and  don't  hurry  back.  I'm 
feeling  fine." 

He  caught  her  suggestion  with  an  eagerness  that  made 
her  bite  her  lip ;  she  kept  her  face  from  him  lest  he  should 
see  her  disappointment.  He  exclaimed  joyously  — 

"Why,  I  reckon  you're  right,  Molly.  I  will  go  for 
awhile.  I'll  work  all  the  better  for  the  holiday." 

He  might  have  said  "  sacrifice." 

As  he  got  into  his  things  he  asked  her :  "  You're  sure 
you'll  not  need  anything,  Molly?  You  think  it's  all  right 
for  me  to  go  ?  " 

She  assured  him  she  would  rest  and  sleep,  and  that 
the  woman  "  below  stairs  "  would  come  up  if  she  wanted 
anything.  He  mustn't  hurry. 

He  took  the  studio  key.  He  was  gone,  his  uneven  step 
echoed  on  the  narrow  stairs.  She  listened  till  it  died  away. 

Fairfax  before  his  panel  during  the  afternoon  worked 
as  though  Fate  were  at  his  heels.  When  he  came  in  the 
room  was  bitter  cold,  and  it  took  the  big  fire  he  built  long 

196 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  197 

to  make  the  shed  inhabitable;  but  no  sooner  had  the 
chill  left  the  air,  and  he  unwrapped  his  plaster,  than  a 
score  of  ideas  came  beating  upon  him  like  emancipated 
ghosts  and  shades,  and  he  saw  the  forms,  though  the  faces 
were  still  veiled.  He  sang  and  whistled,  he  declaimed 
aloud  as  the  clay  he  mixed  softened  and  rolled  under  his 
fingers.  ...  It  let  him  shape  it,  its  magic  was  under  his 
thumb,  its  plasticity,  its  reponse  fascinated  the  sculptor. 
He  tried  now  with  the  intensity  of  his  being  to  fix  his 
conception  for  the  gate  of  Death  and  Eternal  Life.  He 
had  already  made  his  drawing  for  the  new  scaffolding, 
and  it  would  take  him  two  Sundays  to  build  it  up. 
Falutini  would  help  him. 

It  seemed  strange  to  work  without  Molly  sitting  in 
her  corner.  He  wondered  how  long  the  daylight  would 
last;  he  had  three  months  still  until  spring;  that  meant 
twelve  Sundays.  He  thought  of  Molly's  approaching 
illness,  and  a  shadow  crossed  his  face.  Why  had  he  come 
back  only  to  tempt  and  tantalize  himself  with  freedom 
and  the  joy  of  creation  ? 

Sunday-Albany  outside  was  as  tranquil  as  the  tomb, 
and  scarcely  a  footstep  passed  under  his  window.  The 
snow  lay  light  upon  the  window-ledge  and  the  roof,  and 
as  the  room  grew  warmer  the  cordial  light  fell  upon  him 
as  he  worked,  and  a  sense  of  the  right  to  labour,  the  right 
to  be  free,  made  him  take  heart  and  inspired  his  hand. 
He  began  the  sketch  of  his  group  on  a  large  scale. 

As  he  bent  over  his  board  the  snow  without  shifted 
rustling  from  the  roof,  and  the  slipping,  feathery  shower 
fell  gleaming  before  his  window;  the  sound  made  him 
glance  up  and  back  towards  the  door.  As  he  did  so  he 
recalled,  with  the  artist's  vivid  vision,  the  form  of  his 
wife,  as  she  had  stood  in  the  opened  door,  her  arm  along 
the  panel,  in  the  attitude  of  waiting  and  parting. 

"  By  Jove ! "  he  murmured,  gazing  as  though  it  were 
reality.  Half  wondering,  but  with  assurance,  he  indicated 
what  he  recalled,  and  was  drawing  in  rapidly,  absorbed 
in  his  idea,  when  some  one  struck  the  door  harshly  from 
without,  and  Rainsford  called  him. 

Fairfax  started,  threw  down  his  pencil,  and  seized  his  hat 
and  muffler  —  he  worked  in  his  overcoat  because  he  was  cold 
—  to  follow  the  man  who  had  come  to  fetch  him  in  haste. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

OVER  and  over  again  that  night  in  his  watch  that  lasted 
until  dawn,  as  he  walked  the  floor  of  his  little  parlour- 
kitchen  and  listened,  as  he  stood  in  the  window  before 
the  soundless  winter  night  and  listened,  Fairfax  said  the 
word  he  had  said  to  her  when  she  had  paused  in  the 
doorway  — 

"Wait  .  .  A" 

For  what  should  she  wait? 

Did  he  want  her  to  wait  until  he  had  caught  the  image 
of  her  on  his  mind  and  brain  that  he  might  call  upon  it 
for  his  inspiration  ? 

He  called  her  to  "wait!" 

Until  he  should  become  a  great  master  and  need  her 
with  her  simplicity  and  her  humble  mind  less  than  ever? 
Until  he  should  be  honoured  by  his  kind  and  crowned 
successful  and  come  at  last  into  his  own,  and  she  be  the 
only  shadow  on  his  glory?  Not  for  that! 

Until  Fairfax  one  day  should  need  the  warmth  of  a 
perfectly  unselfish  woman's  heart,  a  self-effacing  tender- 
ness, a  breast  to  lean  upon?  She  had  given  him  all  this. 

He  smelled  the  ether  and  strange  drugs.  The  doctor 
came  and  went.  The  nurse  he  had  engaged  from  the 
hospital,  "  the  woman  from  below  stairs "  as  well,  came 
and  went,  spoke  to  him  and  shut  him  out. 

He  was  conscious  that  in  a  chair  in  a  corner,  in  a 
desperate  position,  his  head  in  his  hands,  Rainsford  was 
sitting.  Of  these  things  he  was  conscious  afterward,  but 
he  felt  now  that  he  only  listened,  his  every  emotion  con- 
centrated in  the  sense  of  hearing.  What  was  it  he  was 
BO  intent  to  hear?  The  passing  of  the  Irrevocable  or  the 
advent  of  a  new  life?  He  stood  at  length  close  to  her 
door,  and  it  was  nearly  morning.  A  clock  somewhere 

198 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  199 

struck  four  presently,  and  the  whistle  of  the  Limited  blew; 
but  those  were  not  the  sounds  he  waited  to  hear. 

At  five  o'clock,  whilst  it  was  still  dark  in  the  winter 
morning,  he  started,  his  heart  thumping  against  his 
breast,  a  sob  in  his  throat.  Out  of  the  stillness  which  to 
him  had  been  unbroken,  came  a  cry,  then  another, 
terribly  sweet  and  heart-touching  —  the  cry  of  life.  He 
opened  the  door  of  his  wife's  room  and  entered  softly  in 
his  stocking  feet.  There  seemed  to  be  a  multitude 
between  him  and  his  wife  and  child.  He  did  not  dare 
to  approach,  but  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  cold  with 
apprehension  and  stirred  to  his  depths.  He  seemed  to 
stand  there  for  a  lifetime,  and  his  knees  nearly  gave  way 
beneath  him.  His  hand  pressed  against  his  cheek.  He 
leane^l  forward. 

"Wait!" 

He  almost  murmured  the  word  that  came  to  his  lips. 

For  what  should  Molly  Fairfax  wait?  Life  had  given 
her  a  state  too  high.  She  had  brought  much  grace  to  it 
and  much  love.  She  had  given  a  great  deal.  To  wait 
for  return,  for  such  gifts,  was  to  wait  for  the  unattainable. 

She  went  through  the  open  door  that  she  saw  open, 
perhaps  not  all  unwillingly;  and  she  was  not  alone,  for 
the  child  went  with  her,  and  they  came  to  Fairfax  and 
told  him  that  she  had  gone  through  gently  murmuring 
his  name. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

As  Nut  Street,  with  the  destruction  of  his  little  statue, 
had  been  wiped  out  of  his  history,  so  the  two  rooms 
overlooking  the  river  and  steamboats  knew  Antony  Fair- 
fax no  more.  He  turned  the  key  in  the  door  the  day  they 
carried  away  the  body  of  his  wife,  and  when  he  came  back 
from  the  snowy  earth  and  the  snowy  white  city  where  he 
left  her  with  his  hour-old  child,  he  went  to  the  Delavan 
House  as  he  had  done  before,  and  buried  his  head  in  his 
arms  on  his  lowly  bed  in  a  hotel  room  and  wept. 

The  following  day  he  sent  word  to  Eainsford  to  look 
out  for  another  engineer  in  his  place.  He  had  driven  his 
last  trip. 

Tito  Falutini  wrung  his  friend's  hand,  and  told 
Fairfax,  in  his  broken  Italian-English,  that  he  knew  a 
fellow  would  take  the  rooms  as  they  stood.  "Would 
Tony  give  the  job  to  him  ? "  Save  for  his  clothes  and 
Molly's  things,  and  they  were  few,  he  took  nothing,  not 
even  the  drawings  decorating  the  wall  on  which  other 
Irish  eyes  should  look  with  admiration. 

He  interviewed  the  jewellers  again.  They  gave  him 
four  hundred  dollars  and  took  his  mother's  ring.  He 
paid  his  doctor's  bills  and  funeral  expenses,  and  had  fifty 
dollars  left  until  he  should  finish  his  bas-relief.  He  went 
to  live  at  the  Canal  Street  studio  and  shut  himself  up  with 
his  visions,  his  freedom,  his  strange  reproach  and  his  sense 
of  untrammelled  wings. 

He  worked  with  impassioned  fervour,  for  now  he 
knew.  He  modelled  with  assurance,  for  now  he  saw. 
His  hands  were  so  eager  to  create  the  idea  of  his  brain  that 
he  sighed  as  he  worked,  fairly  panted  at  his  task  as  though 
he  ran  a  race  with  inspiration.  Half-fed,  sometimes  quite 
sleepless,  he  lost  weight  and  flesh.  He  missed  the  open-air 

200 


201 

life  of  the  engine  and  the  air  at  his  ears.  But  now  at  his 
ears  were  the  audible  voices  of  his  conceptions.  February 
and  March  passed.  His  models  were,  a  mannequin,  his 
studies  of  Molly  Fairfax,  and  once  the  daughter  of  the 
man  who  rented  him  the  workshop  stood  before  him 
draped  in  the  long  garment;  but  he  sent  her  away:  she 
was  too  living  for  his  use.  He  ate  in  little  cheap  res- 
taurants down  by  the  riverside,  or  cooked  himself  coffee 
and  eggs  over  his  lamp,  and  wondered  who  would  be  the 
first  to  break  the  silence  and  isolation,  for  it  was  six  weeks 
before  he  saw  a  single  human  being  save  those  he  passed 
in  the  street. 

"Kainsford,"  he  said  to  the  agent,  who  on  the  last 
day  of  March  came  slowly  in  at  noon,  walking  like  a  man 
just  out  of  a  long  illness,  "  I  reckoned  you'd  be  along  when 
you  were  ready.  I've  waited  for  you  here." 

Fairfax's  hand  was  listlessly  touched  by  his  friend's, 
then  Kainsford  went  over  and  took  Molly's  place  by  the 
lamp.  Fairfax  checked  the  words,  "  Not  there,  for  God's 
sake,  Eainsf  ord !  "  He  thought,  "  Let  the  living  come. 
Nothing  can  brush  away  the  image  of  her  sitting  there  in 
the  lamplight,  no  matter  how  many  fill  the  place." 

Eainsford's  eyes  were  hollow,  and  his  tone  as  pale  as 
his  face,  whose  sunken  cheeks  and  hollows,  to  Fairfax, 
marked  the  progress  of  a  fatal  disease.  His  voice  sounded 
hoarse  and  strained;  he  spoke  with  effort. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-bye.  I've  given  up  my  job 
here  in  West  Albany.  I'm  going  to  try  another  country, 
Tony." 

The  sculptor  sat  down  on  the  lounge  where  he  had  used 
to  sit  near  his  wife,  and  said  solicitously  — 

"  I  see  you're  not  well,  old  man.  I  don't  wonder  you're 
going  to  try  a  better  climate.  I  hope  to  heaven  I  shall 
never  see  another  snow-flake  fall.  I  assure  you  I  feel  them 
fall  on  graves." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  agent  passed  his 
hand  across  his  face  and  said,  as  if  reluctant  to  speak 
at  all  - 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  try  another  country.  He 
glanced  at  Fairfax  and  coughed. 

"California?"  questioned  Antony.  "I  hope  you'll^ get 
a  job  in  some  such  paradise.  Do  you  think  you  will  ?  " 


202  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

The  other  man  did  not  reply.  He  looked  about  the 
studio,  now  living-room  and  workshop,  and  said  — 

"  I  should  like  to  see  what  you  have  been  doing. 
Fairfax.  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  " 

Tony,  however,  did  not  rise  from  the  sofa  nor  show 
any  inclination  to  comply,  and  his  friend  irrelevantly,  as 
though  he  took  up  the  young  man's  problems  where  he 
had  left  them,  before  his  own  sentiment  for  Molly  had 
estranged  him  from  her  husband  — 

"You  must  be  pretty  hard  up  by  now,  Tony."  He 
drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  his  wallet,  and  took  out 
a  roll  of  bills  which  he  folded  mechanically  and  held  in 
his  transparent  hand.  "  Ever  since  the  day  you  came  in 
to  take  your  orders  from  me  in  West  Albany,  I've  wanted 
to  help  you.  Now  I've  got  the  money  to  do  so,  old 
man." 

"  No,  my  kind  friend." 

"Don't  refuse  me  then,  if  I  am  that."  The  other's 
lip  twitched.  "Take  it,  Tony." 

"You  mustn't  ask  me  to,  Peter." 

"  I  made  a  turnover  last  week  in  N.  Y.  U.  I  can 
afford  it.  I  ask  you  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

Fairfax  covered  the  slender  hand  with  his.  He  shook 
it  warmly. 

"  I'm  sorry,  old  man.     I  can't  do  it." 

The  near-sighted  eyes  of  the  paymaster  met  those  of 
Fairfax  with  a  melancholy  appeal,  and  the  other  responded 
to  his  unspoken  words  — 

"  No,  Rainsford,  not  for  anything  in  the  world." 

"  It's  your  Pride,"  Rainsford  murmured,  and  he  put 
on  his  shining  glasses  and  looked  through  them  fully  at 
Fairfax.  "  It's  your  Pride,  Tony.  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

For  answer,  Fairfax  rose,  stretched  out  his  arms, 
walked  toward  his  covered  bas-relief  and  drew  away  the 
curtain. 

His  friend  followed  him,  stood  by  his  side,  and,  with 
his  thin  hand  covering  his  eyes,  looked  without  speaking 
at  the  bas-relief.  When  he  finally  removed  his  hand  and 
turned,  Fairfax  saw  that  his  friend's  face  was  transformed. 
Rainsford  wore  a  strangely  peaceful  look,  even  an  up- 
lifted expression,  such  as  a  traveller  might  wear  who  sees 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  203 

the  door  open  to  a  friendly  shelter  and  foretastes  his 
repose. 

Rainsford  held  out  his  hand.  "Thank  you,  Tony," 
and  his  voice  was  clear.  "  You're  a  great  artist." 

When  he  had  gone,  Fairfax  recalled  his  rapt  expression, 
and  thought,  sadly,  "  I'm  afraid  he's  a  doomed  man,  dear 
old  Rainsford!  Poor  old  Peter,  I  doubt  if  any  climate 
can  save  him  now."  And  went  heavy-hearted  to  prepare 
his  little  luncheon  of  sandwiches  and  milk. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

FAIRFAX  had  finished  his  lunch  and  was  preparing  to  work 
again  when,  in  answer  to  a  knock,  he  opened  the  door  for 
Tito  Falutini,  who  bore  in  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  behind 
him  a  rosy,  smiling,  embarrassed  lady,  whom  Fairfax  had 
not  seen  for  a  "  weary  while." 

"Mrs.  Falutini,"  grinned  his  fireman.  "I  married! 
Shakka  de  han." 

"  Cora ! "  exclaimed  Fairfax,  kissing  the  bride  on  both 
her  cheeks ;  "  I  would  have  come  to  see  your  mother  and 
you  long  ago,  but  I  couldn't." 

"  Share,"  said  the  Irish  girl  tenderly,  her  eyes  full  of 
tears.  "  I  know,  Mr.  Fairfax,  dear,  and  so  does  the  all 
of  us." 

He  realized  more  and  more  how  well  these  simple 
people  knew  and  how  kindly  is  the  heart  of  the  poor,  and 
he  wondered  if  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit "  that  the 
Canon  had  spoken  of  in  church  on  Sunday  did  not  refer 
to  some  peculiar  kind  of  richness  of  which  the  millionaires 
of  the  world  are  ignorant.  He  made  Falutini  and  his 
bride  welcome,  and  Cora's  brogue  and  her  sympathy 
caused  his  grief  to  freshen.  But  their  boisterous  happi- 
ness and  their  own  content  was  stronger  than  all  else,  and 
when  at  last  Cora  said,  "  Och,  show  us  the  statywary  't 
you're  makin',  Misther  Fairfax,  dear,"  he  languidly  rose 
and  uncovered  again  his  bas-relief.  Then  he  watched 
curiously  the  Irish  girl  and  the  Italian  workman  before 
his  labour. 

"  Shure,"  Cora  murmured,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  "  it's 
Molly  herself,  Mr.  Fairfax,  dear.  It's  living." 

He  let  the  covering  fall,  and  its  folds  suggested  the 
garments  of  the  tomb. 

The  young  couple,  starting  out  in  life  arm-in-arm,  had 
204 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  205 

seen  only  life  in  his  production,  and  he  was  glad.  He  let 
them  go  without  reluctance,  eager  to  return  to  his 
modelling,  and  to  retouch  a  line  in  the  woman's  figure, 
for  the  bas-relief  was  still  warm  clay,  and  had  not  been 
cast  in  plaster,  and  he  kept  at  his  work  until  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  when  there  was  another  knock  at  his 
door.  He  bade  the  intruder  absently  "  Come  in,"  heard 
the  door  softly  open  and  close,  and  the  sound  jarred  his 
nerves,  as  did  every  sound  at  that  door,  and  with  his 
scalpel  in  his  hand,  turned  sharply.  In  the  door  close  to 
his  shadow  stood  the  figure  of  a  slender  young  girl. 
There  was  only  the  space  of  the  room  between  them,  and 
even  in  his  surprise  he  thought,  "Now,  there  is  nothing 
else !  " 

"  Cousin  Antony,"  she  said  from  the  doorway  where 
he  had  seen  the  vision,  "  aren't  you  going  to  speak  to 
me  ?  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?  " 

Her  words  were  the  first  Fairfax  had  heard  in  the  rich 
voice  of  a  woman,  for  the  child  tone  had  changed,  and  there 
was  a  "  timbre  "  now  in  the  tone  that  struck  the  old  and 
a  new  thrill.  Her  boldness,  the  bright  assurance  seemed 
gone.  He  thought  her  voice  trembled. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  me,  Cousin  Antony?  Do 
you  think  I'm  a  ghost?" 

(A  ghost!) 

Bella  came  forward  as  she  spoke,  and  he  saw  that  she 
wore  a  girlish  dress,  a  long  dress,  a  womanly  dress.  With 
her  old  affectionate  gesture  she  held  out  her  hand,  and 
on  her  dark  hair  was  a  little  red  bonnet  of  some  fashion 
too  modish  for  him  to  find  familiar,  but  very  bewitching 
and  becoming,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  a  lovely  woman, 
nearly  seventeen. 

"  I  lost  the  precious  little  paper  you  gave  me, 
Cousin  Antony,  that  day  at  church,  and  I  only  found 
it  to-day  in  packing.  I'm  going  home  for  the  Easter 
holidays." 

He  realized  that  she  was  close  to  him,  and  that  she 
innocently  lifted  up  her  face.  Fairfax  bent  and  kissed 
her  under  the  red  hat  on  the  hair. 

"  Now,"  she  cried,  nodding  at  him,  "  I've  hunted  you 
down,  tracked  you  to  your  lair,  and  you  can't  escape.  I 
want  to  see  your  work.  Show  me  everything." 


206  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

But  Fairfax  put  his  hand  up  quickly,  and  before 
her  eyea  rested  on  the  bas-relief  he  had  let  the  curtain 
fall. 

"You're  not  an  engineer  any  more,  then,  Cousin 
Antony?" 

"  No,  Bella." 

"  Tell  me  why  you  ran  away  from  us  as  you  did  ? 
Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  pretty  hands,  "  I've 
thought  over  and  over  the  questions  I  wanted  to  ask  you, 
things  1  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  now  I  forget  them  all. 
Cousin  Antony,  it  wasn't  kind  to  leave  us  as  you  did, — 
Gardiner  and  me." 

He  watched  her  as  she  took  a  chair,  half-leaning  on 
its  back  before  his  covered  work.  Bella's  pose  was  grace- 
ful and  elegant.  Girl  as  she  was,  she  was  a  little  woman 
of  the  world.  She  swung  her  gloves  between  her  fingers, 
looking  up  at  him. 

"  It's  nearly  five  years,  Cousin  Antony." 

"  I  know  it." 

She  laughed  and  blushed.  "  I've  been  running  after 
you,  shockingly,  haven't  I?  I  ran  away  from  home  and 
found  you  in  the  queer  little  street  in  the  queer  little  home 
with  those  angel  Irish  people!  How  are  they  all,  Cousin 
Antony,  and  the  freckled  children  ?  " 

"Bella,"  her  cousin  asked,  "haven't  they  nearly 
finished  with  you  in  school?  You  are  grown  up." 

She  shook  her  head  vehemently.  "  Nonsense,  I'm  a 
dreadful  hoyden  still.  Think  of  it!  I've  never  been  on 
the  roll  of  honour  yet  at  St.  Mary's." 

"  No  ?  "  he  smiled.  "  They  were  wrong  not  to  put  you 
there.  How  is  Aunt  Caroline  ?  " 

The  girl's  face  clouded,  and  she  said  half  under  her 
breath  — 

"  Why,  don't  you  know?" 

Ah,  there  was  another  grave,  then?  What  did  Bella 
mean? 

She  exclaimed,  stopped  swinging  her  gloves,  folded  her 
hands  gravely  — 

"Why,  Cousin  Antony,  didn't  you  read  in  the 
papers  ?  " 

He  saw  a  rush  of  colour  fill  her  cheeks.  It  wasn't 
death,  then?  He  hadn't  seen  any  papers  for  some  time, 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  207 

and  he  never  should  have  expected  to  find  his  aunt's  name 
in  the  papers. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  tell  you,  Cousin  Antony." 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  by  her.  "Yes,  you 
can,  little  cousin/' 

Her  face  was  troubled,  but  she  smiled.  "Yes,  that 
was  what  you  used  to  call  me,  didn't  you?  You  see, 
I'm  hardly  supposed  to  know.  It's  not  a  thing  a  girl 
should  know,  Cousin  Antony.  Can't  you  guess?" 

"  Hardly,  Bella." 

Fairfax  wiped  his  hands  on  a  bunch  of  cloths,  and  the 
dry  morsels  of  clay  fell  to  the  floor. 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is  about  Aunt  Caroline." 

"  She  is  not  my  mother  any  more,  Cousin  Antony,  nor 
father's  wife  either." 

He  waited.     Bella's  tone  was  low  and  embarrassed. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it.  She  had  a  lovely  voice, 
Cousin  Antony." 

"  She  had  indeed,  Bella." 

"  Well,"  slowly  commented  the  young  girl,  "  ghe  took 
music  lessons  from  a  teacher  who  sang  in  the  opera,  and 
I  used,  to  hear  them  at  it  until  I  nearly  lost  my  mind 
sometimes.  I  hate  music  —  I  mean  that  kind,  Cousin 
Antony." 

"  Well,"  he  interrupted,  impatient  to  hear  the  denoue- 
ment. "  What  then,  honey  ?  " 

"  One  night  at  dinner-time  mother  didn't  come  home ; 
but  she  is  often  late,  and  we  waited,  and  then  went  on 
without  her.  .  .  .  She  never  came  home,  and  no  one  ever 
told  me  anything,  not  even  old  Ann.  Father  said  I  was 
not  to  speak  my  mother's  name  again.  And  I  never  have, 
until  now,  to  you." 

Fairfax  took  in  his  Bella's  hands  that  turned  the  little 
rolled  kid  gloves ;  they  were  cold.  He  bent  his  eyes  on  her. 
Young  as  she  was,  she  saw  there  and  recognized  compassion 
and  human  understanding,  qualities  which,  although  she 
hardly  knew  their  names,  were  sympathetic  to  her.  He 
bent  his  eyes  on  her. 

"Honey,"  Fairfax  said,  "you  have  spoken  your 
mother's  name  in  the  right  place.  Don't  judge  her, 
Bella ! " 

"Oh!"   exclaimed   the   young   girl,    crimsoning.     She 


208  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

tossed  her  proud,  dark  head.  "  I  do  judge  her,  Cousin 
Antony,  I  do." 

"  Hush ! "  he  exclaimed  sternly,  "  as  you  say,  you 
are  too  young  to  understand  what  she  has  done,  but  not 
too  young  to  be  merciful." 

She  snatched  her  hands  away,  and  sprang  up,  her  eyes 
rebellious. 

"  Why  should  I  not  judge  her  ? "  Her  voice  was 
indignant.  "It's  a  disgrace  to  my  honourable  father, 
to  our  name.  How  can  you,  Cousin  Antony  ?  "  Fairfax 
did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  her  intense  little  face.  "  She 
was  never  a  mother  to  us,"  the  young  girl  judged,  with 
the  cruelty  of  youth.  "  Think  how  I  ran  wild !  Do  you 
remember  my  awful  clothes?  My  things  that  never  met, 
the  buttons  off  my  shoes?  Think  of  darling  little 
Gardiner,  Cousin  Antony  .  .  . ! " 

Her  cousin  again  bade  her  be  silent.  She  stamped 
her  foot  passionately. 

"  But  I  will  speak !     Why  should  you  take  her  part  ?  " 

With  an  expression  which  Bella  felt  to  be  grave, 
Fairfax  repeated  — 

"You  must  not  speak  her  name,  as  your  father  told 
you.  It's  a  mighty  hard  thing  for  one  woman  to  judge 
another,  little  cousin.  Wait  until  you  are  a  woman 
yourself." 

Fairfax  understood.  He  thought  how  the  way  had 
opened  to  his  weak,  sentimental  aunt;  he  fancied  that 
he  saw  again  the  doe  at  the  gate  of  the  imposing  park  of 
the  unreal  forest;  the  gate  had  swung  open,  and,  her 
eyes  as  mild  as  ever,  the  doe  had  entered  the  mystic 
world.  To  him  this  image  of  his  aunt  was  perfect.  Oh ! 
mysterious,  dreadful,  wonderful  heart  of  woman ! 

Bella  stood  by  his  side,  looking  up  at  him.  "  Cousin 
Antony,"  she  breathed,  "  why  do  you  take  her  part  ?  " 

"  I  want  her  daughter  to  take  it,  Bella,  or  say  nothing." 

Her  dark  eyes  were  on  him  intently,  curiously.  His 
throat  was  bare,  his  blond  hair  cut  close  around  his  neck; 
the  marks  of  his  recent  grief  and  struggle  had  thinned  and 
saddened  his  face.  He  had  altered  very  much  in  five 
years. 

"  I  remember,"  Bella  said  sharply,  "  you  used  to  seem 
fond  of  her ; "  and  added,  "  I  loved  my  father  best." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  209 

Fairfax  made  no  reply,  and  Bella  walked  slowly  across 
the  studio,  and  started  to  sit  down  under  the  green  lamp. 

"  No,"  cried  Fairfax,  "  not  there,  Bella !  " 

Her  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  the  young  girl 
paused  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  why  not,  Cousin  Antony  ?  " 

Why  not,  indeed!  He  had  not  prevented  Rainsford 
from  sitting  there. 

"  Is  the  chair  weak  in  its  legs  ?  "  she  laughed.  "  I'm 
light  —  I'll  risk  it,"  and,  half  defiantly,  she  seated  her- 
self by  the  table,  leaning  both  elbows  on  it.  She  looked 
back  at  him.  "  Now,  make  a  little  drawing  of  me  as  you 
used  to  do.  I'll  show  it  to  the  girls  in  school  to  prove 
what  a  genius  we  have  in  the  family;  and  I  must  go 
back,  too,  or  I'll  have  more  bad  marks  than  ever." 

Fairfax  did  not  obey  her.  Instead,  he  looked  at  her 
as  though  he  saw  through  her  to  eternity. 

Bella  sprang  up  impulsively,  and  came  toward  him. 
"  Cousin  Antony,"  she  murmured,  "  I'm  perfectly  dread- 
Iful.  I'm  selfish  and  inconsiderate.  Ifs  only  because 
I'm  a  little  wild.  I  don't  mean  it.  You've  told  me 
nothing."  She  lifted  his  cravat  from  the  chair.  "You 
wear  a  black  cravat  and  your  clothes  are  black.  Is  it 
for  Aunt  Arabella  still  ?  " 

Fairfax  seemed  to  himself  to  look  down  on  her  from  a 
height.  Her  brilliance,  her  sparkle  and  youth  were  far 
away.  His  heart  ached  within  him. 

"  One  goes  mighty  far  in  five  years,  Bella.  .  .  .  One 
loses  many  things." 

"  I  know  —  Gardiner  and  your  mother.  But  who 
else?" 

He  saw  her  face  sadden;  the  young  girl  extended  her 
hand  to  him,  her  eyes  darkened. 

"  Who  else  ?  "  she  breathed. 

Fairfax  put  out  his  arms  toward  her,  but  did  not 
enfold  her.  He  let  his  hands  rest  on  her  shoulders  and 
murmured,  "Bella,  little  Bella,"  and  choked  the  other 
words  back. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  little  Bella  any  more. 
Please  answer  me,  Cousin  Antony." 

He  could  not  have  told  her  for  his  life.  He  could  tell 
her  nothing ;  her  charm,  her  lifted  face,  beautiful,  ardent, 


210  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

were  the  most  real,  the  most  vital  things  the  world  had 
ever  held  for  him.  The  fascination  found  him  under  his 
new  grief.  He  exclaimed,  turning  brusquely  toward  his 
covered  scaffolding  — 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  my  work,  Bella?  I've  been 
at  it  nearly  a  year." 

He  rapidly  drew  the  curtain  and  exposed  his  Das- 
relief. 

There  was  in  the  distance  a  vague  indication  of  distant 
sky-line  —  a  far  horizon  —  upon  which,  into  which,  a  door 
opened,  held  ajar  by  a  woman's  arm  and  hand.  The 
woman's  figure,  draped  in  the  clinging  garment  of  the 
grave,  was  passing  through,  but  in  going  her  face  was 
turned,  uplifted,  to  look  back  at  a  man  without,  who, 
apparently  unconscious  of  her,  gazed  upon  life  and  the 
world.  That  was  all  —  the  two  figures  and  the  feeling  of 
the  vast  illimitable  far-away. 

It  seemed  to  Fairfax  as  he  unveiled  his  work  that  he 
looked  upon  it  himself  for  the  first  time;  it  seemed  to 
him  finished,  moreover,  complete.  He  knew  that  he 
could  do  nothing  more  with  it.  He  heard  Bella  ask, 
"  Who  is  it,  Cousin  Antony  ?  It  is  perfectly  beautiful !  " 
her  old  enthusiasm  soft  and  warm  in  her  voice. 

At  her  repeated  question,  "Who  is  it?"  he  replied, 
"  A  dream  woman."  And  his  cousin  said,  "  You  have 
lovely  dreams,  but  it  is  too  sad." 

He  told  her  for  what  it  was  destined,  and  she  listened, 
musing,  and  when  she  turned  her  face  to  him  again  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  pointed  to  the  panel. 

"There  should  be  a  child  there,"  she  said,  with 
trembling  lips.  "  They  go  in  too,  Cousin  Antony." 

"  Yes,"  he  responded,  "  they  go  in  too." 

He  crossed  the  floor  with  her  toward  the  door,  neither 
of  them  speaking.  She  drew  on  her  gloves,  but  at  the 
door  he  said  — 

"  Stop  a  moment.     I'm  going  a  little  way  with  you." 

"No,  Cousin  Antony,  you  can't.  Myra  Scutfield,  my 
best  friend,  is  waiting  for  me  with  her  brother.  I'm 
supposed  to  be  visiting  her  for  Sunday.  You  mustn't 
come." 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door  latch.  He  gently  took  her 
hand  and  pushed  it  aside.  He  did  not  wish  her  to  open 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  211 

that  door  or  to  go  through  it  alone.  As  they  stood  there 
silent,  she  lifted  her  face  and  said  — 

"I'm  going  away  for  the  Easter  holidays.  Kiss  me 
good-bye/' 

And  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  —  kissed  Bella,  the  little 
cousin,  the  honey  child  —  no,  kissed  Bella,  the  woman, 
on  her  lips. 


CHAPTEK  XXXVI 

FROM  the  window  he  watched  her  fly  up  the  street  like 
a  scarlet  bird,  and  realized  what  a  child  she  was  still,  and, 
whereas  he  had  felt  a  hundred  that  day  at  church,  he 
now  felt  as  old  as  the  ancient  Egyptians,  as  the  Sphinx, 
a  Sage  in  suffering  and  knowledge  of  life,  beside  his  cousin. 
He  called  her  little,  but  she  was  tall  and  slender,  standing 
as  high  as  his  shoulder. 

He  turned  heavily  about  to  his  room  which  the  night 
now  filled.  The  street  lamps  were  lit,  and  their  frail 
glimmer  flickered  in,  like  the  fingers  of  a  ghost.  His 
money  was  nearly  gone.  There  was  the  expense  of 
casting  his  work  in  plaster,  the  packing  and  shipping  of 
the  bas-relief.  He  lit  his  lamp,  and,  as  he  adjusted  the 
green  shade,  under  which  Molly  had  used  to  sit  and  sew, 
he  saw  on  the  table  the  roll  of  bills  which  Eainsford  had 
offered  to  him  that  morning.  He  picked  up  the  money 
with  a  smile. 

"  Poor  old  Rainsford,  dear  old  chap.  He  was  deter- 
mined, wasn't  he?" 

Fairfax  wrapped  up  the  heavy  roll  of  money,  marked 
it  with  Rainsford's  name,  and  stood  musing  on  his 
friend's  failing  health,  his  passion  for  Molly,  and  the 
fruitless,  vanishing  story  that  ended,  as  all  seemed  to  end 
for  him,  in  death.  Suddenly,  over  his  intense  feelings, 
came  the  need  of  nourishment,  and  he  wanted  to  escape 
from  the  room  where  he  had  been  caged  all  day. 

At  the  Delavan,  George  Washington  welcomed  him 
with  delight. 

"  Yo'  dun  f orgit  yo'  ol'  friends,  Massa'  Kunnell  Fairfax, 
sah.  Yo  doan  favour  dis  ol'  nigger  any  moh." 

Fairfax  told  him  that  he  was  an  expensive  luxury,  and 
enjoyed  his  quiet  meal  and  his  cigar,  took  a  walk  in  a 

212 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  213 

different  direction  from  Canal  Street,  and  at  ten  o'clock 
returned  to  find  a  boy  waiting  at  the  door  with  a  note, 
whistling  and  staring  up  and  down  the  street,  waiting  for 
the  gentleman  to  whom  he  was  to  deliver  his  note  in 
person. 

Fairfax  went  in  with  his  letter,  knowing  before  he 
opened  it  that  Rainsford  had  something  grave  to  tell  him. 
He  sat  down  in  Molly's  chair,  around  which  the  Presence 
had  gathered  and  brooded  until  the  young  man's  soul  had 
seemed  engulfed  in  the  shadow  of  Death. 

"  MY  DEAR  TONY, 

"When  you  read  this  letter,  it  will  be  of  no 
use  to  come  to  me.  Don't  come.  I  said  my  final  word 
to  you  to-day  when  I  went  to  make  my  will  and  testament. 
You  will  discover  on  your  table  all  my  fortune.  It  counts 
up  to  a  thousand  dollars.  I  have  a  feeling  that  it  may 
help  you  to  success.  You  know  what  a  failure  I  have 
been.  I  should  have  been  one  right  along.  Now  that  I 
have  found  out  that  a  mortal  disease  is  upon  me,  my  last 
spurt  of  courage  is  gone.  When  I  stood  before  your  work 
to-day,  Tony,  it  was  a  benediction  to  me.  Although  I 
had  fully  decided  to  go  out,  I  should  have  gone  hope- 
lessly ;  now  there  is  something  grand  to  me  in  the  retreat. 
The  uplift  and  the  solemnity  of  the  far  horizon  charm  me, 
and  though  I  open  the  door  for  myself  and  have  no  right  to 
any  claim  for  mercy,  nevertheless  I  think  that  I  shall  find 
it  there,  and  I  am  going  through  the  open  door.  God 
bless  you,  Fairfax.  Don't  let  the  incidents  of  your  life 
in  Albany  cloud  what  I  believe  will  be  a  great  career. 

"  THOMAS  RAINSFORD." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

HE  was  too  young  to  be  engulfed  by  death. 

But  he  did  not  think  or  understand  then  that  the 
great  events  which  had  racked  his  nerves  in  suffering  were 
only  incidents.  Nor  did  he  know  that  neither  his  soul 
nor  his  heart  had  suffered  all  they  were  capable  of  enduring. 
In  spite  of  his  deep  heart-ache  and  his  feelings  that 
quivered  with  the  memories  of  his  wife,  he  was  above  all 
an  artist,  a  creator.  Hope  sprang  from  this  last  grave. 
Desire  in  Fairfax  had  never  been  fully  born;  how  then 
could  it  be  fully  satisfied  or  grow  old  and  cold  before  it 
had  lived! 

Tony  Fairfax  was  the  sole  mourner  that  followed 
Rainsford's  coffin  to  the  Potter's  Field.  They  would  not 
bury  him  in  consecrated  ground.  Canon  Prynne  had  been 
surprised  by  a  visit  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Fairfax  was  received  by  the  Bishop  in  his  bedroom, 
where  the  Bishop  was  shaving.  Fairfax,  as  he  talked, 
caught  sight  of  his  own  face  in  the  glass,  deathly  white, 
his  burning  eyes  as  blue  as  the  heavens  to  which  he  was 
sure  Rainsford  had  gone. 

"  My  friend/'  the  ecclesiastic  said,  "  my  friend,  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  laws,  thank  God.  I  am  glad  that  no 
responsibility  has  been  given  me  but  to  do  my  work. 
But  let  me  say,  to  comfort  you,  is  not  every  whit  of  the 
earth  that  God  made  holy?  What  could  make  it  more 
sacred  than  the  fact  that  He  created  it  ?  " 

Fairfax  thought  of  these  words  as  he  saw  the  dust 
scatter  and  heard  the  rattle  of  the  stones  on  the  lid  of 
Rainsford's  coffin,  and  in  a  clear  and  assured  voice  of  one 
who  knows  in  whom  he  has  believed,  he  read  from  Bella's 
Prayer-book  (he  had  never  given  it  back  to  her),  "I  am 

214 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  215 

the  Resurrection  and  the  Life."  He  could  find  no  parson 
to  go  with  him. 

On  the  way  back  to  Albany  he  met  the  spring  every- 
where; it  was  just  before  the  Easter  holidays.  Overhead 
the  clouds  rolled  across  a  stainless  sky,  and  they  took 
ship-like  forms  to  him  and  he  felt  a  strong  wish  to  escape  — 
to  depart.  Rainsford  had  set  him  free.  It  would  be 
months  before  he  could  hear  from  his  competition.  There 
was  nothing  in  this  continent  to  keep  him.  He  had  come 
North  full  of  living  hope  and  vital  purpose,  and  meekly, 
solemnly,  his  graves  had  laid  themselves  out  around  him, 
and  he  alone  stood  living. 

Was  there  nothing  to  keep  him? 

Bella  Carew. 

He,  had,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  possibly  the  leatt 
right  to  her.  She  was  his  first  cousin,  nothing  but  a 
child;  worth,  the  papers  had  said,  a  million  in  her  own 
right.  The  heiress  of  a  man  who  despised  him. 

But  her  name  was  music  still ;  music  as  yet  too 
delicate,  sweet  as  it  was,  not  to  be  drowned  by  the  deeper, 
graver  notes  that  were  sounding  through  Fairfax.  There 
was  a  call  to  labour,  there  was  the  imperious  demand  of 
his  art.  In  him,  something  sang  Glory,  and  if  the  other 
tones  meant  struggle  and  battle,  nevertheless  his  desire 
was  all  toward  them. 


BOOK  III 

THE  VISIONS 

CHAPTEE  I 

THE  sea  which  he  had  just  crossed  lay  gleaming  behind 
him,  every  lovely  ripple  washing  the  shores  of  a  new 
continent. 

The  cliffs  which  he  saw  rising  white  in  the  sunlight 
were  the  Norman  cliffs.  Beyond  them  the  fields  waved 
in  the  summer  air  and  the  June  sky  spread  blue  over 
France. 

As  he  stepped  down  from  the  gang-plank  and  touched 
French  soil,  he  gazed  about  him  in  delight. 

The  air  was  salt  and  indescribably  sweet.  The  breeze 
came  to  him  over  the  ripening  fields  and  mingled  with  the 
breath  of  the  sea. 

They  passed  his  luggage  through  the  Customs  quickly, 
and  Antony  was  free  to  wonder  and  to  explore.  Not 
since  he  had  left  the  oleanders  and  jasmines  of  New 
Orleans  had  he  smelled  such  delicious  odours  as  those 
of  sea-girdled  Havre.  A  few  soldiers  in  red  uniforms 
tramped  down  the  streets  singing  the  Marseillaise.  A 
group  of  fish-wives  offered  him  mussels  and  crabs. 

In  his  grey  travelling  clothes,  his  soft  grey  hat,  his 
bag  in  his  hand,  he  went  away  from  the  port  toward  the 
wide  avenue. 

The  bright  colour  of  a  red  awning  of  a  cafe  caught 
his  eye;  he  decided  to  breakfast  before  going  on  to  Paris. 

Paris!     The  word  thrilled  him  through  and  through. 

At  a  small  table  out  of  doors  he  ordered  "boeuf  u  la 
216 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  217 

mode"  and  "pommes  de  terre."  It  seemed  agreeable 
to  speak  French  again  and  his  soft  Creole  accent  charmed 
the  ear  of  the  waiter  who  bent  smiling  to  take  his  order. 

Antony  watched  with  interest  the  scene  around  him; 
those  about  him  seemed  to  be  good-humoured,  contented 
travellers  on  the  road  of  life.  There  was  a  neat  alacrity 
about  the  waiters  in  their  white  aprons. 

A  girl  with  a  bouquet  of  roses  came  up  to  him.  Antony 
gave  her  a  sou  and  in  exchange  she  gave  him  a  white 
rose. 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur  the  Englishman." 

He  had  never  tasted  steak  and  potatoes  like  these. 
He  had  never  tasted  red  wine  like  this.  And  it  cost  only 
a  franc !  He  ordered  his  coffee  and  smoked  and  mused  in 
the  bland  June  light. 

He  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  long  day. 

Eventful,  tremulous,  terrible  and  expressive,  his  past 
lay  behind  him  on  another  shore.  He  felt  as  though  he 
were  about  to  seek  his  fortune  for  the  first  time. 

As  soon  as  Rainsford's  generous  gift  became  his  own, 
the  possession  of  his  little  fortune,  even  at  such  a  tragic 
price,  made  a  new  man  of  Fairfax.  He  magnified  its 
power,  but  it  proved  sufficient  to  buy  him  a  gentlemanly 
outfit,  the  ticket  to  France,  and  leave  him  a  little  capital. 

His  plans  unfolded  themselves  to  him  now,  as  he  sat 
musing  before  the  restaurant.  He  would  study  in  the 
schools  with  Cormon  or  Julian.  He  had  brought  with 
him  his  studies  of  Molly  —  he  would  have  them  criticized 
by  the  great  masters.  All  Paris  was  before  him.  The 
wonders  of  the  galleries,  whose  masterpieces  were  familiar 
to  him  in  casts  and  photographs,  would  disclose  themselves 
to  him  now.  He  would  see  the  Louvre,  Notre  Dame  de 
Paris.  .  .  . 

His  spirits  rose  as  he  touched  the  soil  of  France.  Now 
Paris  should  be  his  mistress,  and  art  should  be  his  passion ! 

His  ticket  took  him  second-class  on  a  slow  train  and 
he  found  a  seat  amongst  the  humble  travelling  world; 
between  a  priest  and  a  soldier,  he  smoked  his  cigarettes 
and  offered  them  to  his  companions,  and  watched  the 
river  flowing  between  the  poplars,  the  fields  red  with 


218  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

poppies,  yellow  with  wheat.  The  summer  light  shining 
on  all  shone  on  him  through  the  small  window  of  the 
carriage,  and  though  it  was  sunset  it  seemed  to  Fairfax 
sunrise.  The  hour  grew  late.  The  darkness  fell  and  the 
motion  of  the  cars  made  him  drowsy,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  hy  the  stirring  of  his  fellow- 
passengers,  by  the  rich  Norman  voices,  by  the  jostling 
and  moving  among  the  occupants  of  the  carriage,  and  he 
gathered  his  thoughts  together,  took  his  valise  in  his 
hand  and  climbed  down  from  the  car. 

He  passed  out  with  the  crowd  through  the  St.  Lazare 
station.  He  had  in  Havre  observed  with  interest  the 
novel  constructions  of  the  engines  and  the  rolling  stock. 
The  crowd  of  market-women,  peasants,  cures,  was 
anonymous  to  him,  but  as  he  passed  the  engine  which 
had  brought  him  from  Havre,  he  glanced  up  at  the 
mechanician,  a  big,  blond-moustached  fellow  in  a  blue 
blouse.  The  engineer's  face  streamed  with  perspiration 
and  he  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 

He  had  shunned  engines  and  yards,  and  everything  that 
had  to  do  with  his  old  existence,  for  months;  now  he 
nodded  with  a  friendly  sympathetic  smile  to  the  engine- 
driver. 

"  Bien  le  bonjour,"  he  said  cheerfully,  as  he  had  heard 
the  people  in  the  train  say  it,  "  Bien  le  bonjour." 

The  Frenchman  nodded  and  grinned  and  watched 
him  limp  down  and  out  with  the  others  to  the  waiting- 
room  called,  picturesquely,  the  Hall  of  the  Lost  Foot- 
steps — "  La  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus." 

And  Antony's  light  step  and  his  heavy  step  fell  among 
the  countless  millions  that  come  and  go,  go  and  come, 
unmarked,  forgotten  —  to  walk  with  the  Paris  multitudes 
into  paths  of  obscurity  or  fame  — "  les  pas  perdus." 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  the  first  beginning  of  summer  dawn  when  he 
turned  breathlessly  into  the  Rue  de  Rome  and  stood  at 
length  in  Pans.  He  shouldered  his  big  bag  and  took  his 
bearings.  At  that  early  hour  there  were  few  people 
abroad  —  here  and  there  a  small  open  carriage,  drawn  by  a 
limp,  melancholy  horse  and  dominated  by  what  he  thought 
a  picturesque  cabby,  passed  him  invitingly.  A  drive  in  a 
cab  in  America  is  not  for  a  man  of  uncertain  means,  and 
the  folly  of  taking  a  vehicle  did  not  occur  to  him.  Along 
the  broad  avenue  at  the  street's  foot,  lights  were  still  lit 
in  the  massive  lamps,  shops  and  houses  were  closed,  and 
by  a  blue  sign  on  the  wall  he  read  that  he  was  crossing  a 
great  avenue.'  The  Boulevard  Haussmann  was  as  tranquil 
as  a  village  street.  A  couple  of  good-looking  men,  whom 
he  thought  were  soldiers,  caught  his  eye  in  their  uniforms 
of  white  trousers  and  blue  coats.  He  asked  them,  touch- 
ing his  hat,  the  first  thing  that  came  to  his  mind:  "La 
Rue  Mazarine,  Messieurs  —  would  they  direct  him  ?  " 

When  he  came  out  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  at 
four  o'clock  he  was  actually  the  only  speck  visible  in  the 
great  circle.  He  stopped,  enchanted,  to  look  about  him. 
The  imaginative  and  inadequate  picture  of  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  his  idea  had  drawn,  faded.  The  light  mists 
of  the  morning  swept  up  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees, 
and  there  stood  out  before  his  eyes  the  lines  of  the 
Triumphal  Arch,  which  to  Antony  said :  Napoleon ! 

On  the  left  stretched  gardens  toward  a  great  palace, 
all  that  has  been  left  to  France  and  the  glory  which  was  her 
doom. 

From  the  spectral  line  of  the  Louvre,  his  eyes  came 
back  to  the  melancholy  statues  that  rose  near  him  — 

219 


220  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

Strassburg,  Luxemburg,  Alsace  and  Lorraine.  Huge 
iron  wreaths  hung  about  their  bases,  wreaths  that 
blossomed  as  he  looked,  like  flowers  of  blood  and  lilies  of 
death. 

Then  in  front  of  him  the  calm,  rose-hued  obelisk 
lifted  its  finger,  and  once  again  the  shadow  of  Egypt  fell 
across  the  heart  of  a  modern  city.  To  Antony,  the 
obelisk  had  an  affinity  with  the  Abydos  Sphinx,  but 
this  obelisk  did  not  rest  on  the  backs  of  four  bronze 
creatures ! 

The  small  cabs  continued  to  tinkle  slowly  across  the 
Place;  a  group  of  young  fellows  passed  by,  singing  on 
their  way  to  the  Latin  Quarter,  from  some  fete  in  Mont- 
martre  —  they  were  students  going  home  before  morning. 
In  the  distance,  here  and  there,  were  a  few  foot  passengers 
like  himself,  but  to  Antony  it  seemed  that  he  was  alone 
in  Paris.  And  in  the  fresh  beginning  of  a  day  untried  and 
momentous,  the  city  was  like  a  personality.  In  the 
summer  softness,  in  the  tender,  agreeable  light,  the.  welcome 
to  him  was  caressing  and  as  lovely  as  New  York  had  been 
brutal. 

Antony  resumed  his  way  to  the  river,  followed  the 
quays  where  at  his  side  the  Seine  ran  along,  reddening 
in  the  summer's  sunrise.  Along  the  river,  when  he  crossed 
the  Pont  des  Arts,  he  saw  the  stirring  of  Parisian  life. 
He  went  on  down  the  quays,  past  quaint  old  houses  whose 
traditions  and  history  he  wanted  to  know,  turned  off  into 
a  dark  street  —  la  Rue  Mazarine.  He  smiled  as  he  read 
the  sign.  What  had  this  narrow  Parisian  alley  to  do  with 
him?  He  had  adopted  it  out  of  caprice,  distinguished 
it  from  all  Paris. 

He  scanned  the  shops  and  houses;  many  were  still 
closed,  neither  milk-shops  nor  antiquity  dealers  suggested 
shelter.  A  modest  sign  over  a  dingy-looking  building 
caught  his  eye.  In  the  courtyard,  in  green  wooden  tubs, 
flourished  two  bay-trees. 

"  Hotel  of  the  Universe  " —  Hotel  de  1'Univers. 

That  was  hospitable  enough,  wide  enough  to  take 
Antony  Fairfax  in.  Behind  the  bay-trees  a  dirty,  dis- 
couraged looking  waiter,  to  whom  the  universe  had 
apparently  not  been  generous,  welcomed,  or  at  least 
glanced,  at  Fairfax.  The  fellow  wore  a  frayed,  colourless 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  221 

dress-suit;  his  linen  was  suspicious,  but  his  head  at  this 
early  hour  was  sleekly  brushed  and  oiled. 

"  No,  the  hotel  is  not  yet  full,"  he  told  the  stranger, 
as  though  he  said,  "  The  entire  universe,  thank  God,  has 
not  yet  descended  upon  us." 

For  one  franc  fifty  a  room  could  be  had  on  the  sixth 
floor.  Antony  yielded  up  his  bag  and  bade  the  man  show 
the  way. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  could  hardly  wait  to  make  his  hasty  toilet  and  set 
forth  into  the  city.  He  saw  something  of  it  from  the 
eave-window  in  his  microscopic  room.  Chimney-pots, 
stained,  mossy  roofs,  the  flash  of  old  spires,  the  round  of  a 
dome,  the  river,  the  bridges,  all  under  the  supernal  blue  of, 
to  him,  a  friendly  sky  —  he  felt  that  he  must  quaff  it  all 
at  a  draught.  But  the  fatigue  of  his  lame  limb  began  to 
oppress  him.  There  was  the  weight  of  sleep  on  his  eyelids, 
and  he  turned  gratefully  to  the  small  bed  under  the  red 
rep  curtains.  It  was  ridiculously  small  for  his  six  feet 
of  body,  but  he  threw  himself  down  thankfully  and 
slept. 

Dreams  chased  each  other  through  his  brain  and  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  toward  elusive  forms  in  his  sleep. 
He  seized  upon  one,  thinking  it  was  Bella,  and  when  he 
pressed  his  cheek  to  hers,  the  cheek  was  cold  and  the  form 
was  cold.  He  slept  till  afternoon  and  rose  still  with  the 
daze  upon  him  of  his  arrival  and  his  dreams,  and  the  first 
excitement  somewhat  calmed.  He  had  enough  change 
for  his  lodging  and  dinner,  but  nothing  more. 

He  walked  across  the  bridge  and  the  light  and  brilliance 
of  the  city  dazzled  him.  He  went  into  the  Louvre,  and 
the  coolness  and  breadth  of  the  place  fell  on  him  like  a 
spell.  He  wondered  if  any  in  that  vast  place  was  as 
athirst  as  he  was  and  as  mad  for  beauty.  He  wandered 
through  the  rooms  enthralled,  and  made  libations  to  the 
relics  of  old  Egypt;  he  sent  up  hymns  to  the  remains  of 
ancient  Greece,  and  before  the  Venus  of  Milo  gave  up  his 
heart,  standing  long  absorbed  before  the  statue,  swearing 
to  slave  for  the  production  of  beauty.  He  found  himself 
stirred  to  his  most  passionate  depths,  musing  on  form  and 
artistic  creation,  and  when  the  pulse  in  his  heart  became 

222 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  223 

too  strong  and  the  Venus  oppressed  his  sense,  he  wandered 
out,  limped  up  the  staircase  and  delivered  up  his  soul  at 
the  foot  of  the  pedestal  of  the  Winged  Victory.  He  did 
not  go  to  the  paintings ;  the  feast  had  been  tremendous  — 
he  could  bear  no  more. 

On  his  way  out  of  the  Louvre  he  passed  through  the 
Egyptian  room.  Ever  since  the  Abydos  Sphinx  had 
been  brought  to  America,  from  the  Nile,  Egypt  had 
charmed  him.  He  had  read  of  Egypt,  its  treasures,  in 
the  Albany  library  now  and  then  on  Sunday  afternoons. 
It  had  a  tremendous  attraction  for  him,  and  he  entered  the 
room  where  its  relics  were  with  worship  of  the  antique 
in  his  soul. 

He  turned  to  go,  when  his  foot  touched  something 
on  the  floor  and  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up  —  a  fine  chain 
purse  heavy  with  pieces  of  gold.  He  balanced  it  in  his 
hand  and  looked  around  for  the  possible  owner,  but  he  was 
the  only  sightseer.  He  went,  however,  quickly  from  the 
museum,  not  knowing  in  just  what  manner  to  restore  this 
property,  and  in  front  of  him,  passing  out  on  to  the  gallery 
above  the  grand  staircase,  he  saw  a  lady  leisurely  making 
her  exit.  She  was  beautifully  dressed  and  had  such  an 
air  of  riches  about  her  that  he  thought  to  himself,  with 
every  reason,  why  should  she  not  be  the  possessor  of  a 
gold  purse  ?  He  went  up  to  her. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  he  began,  and  as  she  turned  he 
recognized  her  in  a  moment  as  the  woman  by  whose 
carriage  he  had  stood  in  the  crowd  on  the  day  of  the 
unveiling  of  his  statue  —  he  recognized  her  as  the  woman 
who  had  drawn  the  veil  of  the  Sphinx.  She  was  Ceders- 
holm's  fiancee.  "  Have  you  lost  anything,  Madame  ?  " 

She  exclaimed:  "My  purse!  Oh,  thank  you  very 
much."  Then  looked  at  him,  smiling,  and  said,  "  But 
I  think  I  have  seen  you  before.  Whom  must  I 
thank?" 

He  had  his  hat  in  his  hand.  His  fine,  clear  brow  over 
which  the  hair  grew  heavily,  his  beautiful  face,  his  strength 
and  figure,  once  seen  and  remembered  as  she  had  remem- 
bered them  in  that  brief  instant  in  New  York,  were  not 
to  be  forgotten.  Still  the  resemblance  puzzled  her. 

"My  name  is  Rainsford,"  he  said  quietly,  '  Thomas 
Eainsford.  I  am  one  of  Mr.  Cedersholm's  pupils." 


224  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  If  that  is  so/'  she  said,  "  you  are  welcome  at  my 
house  at  any  time.  I  am  home  Sundays.  Won't  you 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  calling,  Mr.  Rainsf ord  ?  " 

He  bowed,  thanked  her,  and  they  walked  down  the 
stairs  together,  and  she  was  unable  to  recall  where  she 
had  seen  this  handsome  young  man. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  his  little  hotel  that  night  he  lighted  a  candle  in  a 
tall  nickel  candlestick,  and,  when  he  was  ready  for  bed, 
he  peered  into  his  mirror  at  his  own  face,  which  he  took 
pains  to  consider  thoughtfully.  Like  a  friend's  it  looked 
back  at  him,  the  marks  of  Life  deep  upon  it. 

At  two  o'clock  he  was  in  a  heavy  sleep  when  he  was 
roused  by  the  turning  of  the  handle  of  his  door.  Some 
one  had  come  into  the  room  and  Antony,  bolt  upright, 
heard  the  door  drawn  and  the  key  turned.  Then  some- 
thing slipped  and  fell  with  a  thud.  He  lit  his  candle, 
shielded  it,  and  to  his  amazement  saw  sitting  on  the  floor, 
his  big  form  taking  up  half  the  little  room,  a  young  fellow 
in  full  evening  dress,  an  opera  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head. 

"Don't  squeal,"  said  the  visitor  gently  with  a  hiccough; 
"  I  see  I'm  too  late  or  too  early,  or  shomething  or  other." 

He  was  evidently  a  gentleman  out  of  his  room  and 
evidently  drunk.  Antony  laughed  and  got  half-way  out 
of  bed. 

"  You're  in  the  wrong  room,  that's  clear,  and  how 
are  you  going  to  get  out  of  it?  Can  you  get  up  with  a 
lift?" 

"  Look  here  " —  the  young  man  who  was  an  American 
and  who  would  have  been  agreeable-looking  if  he  had  not 
been  drunk  and  hebetated,  sat  back  and  leaned  comfort- 
ably against  the  door — "  roomsh  all  right,  good  roomsh, 
just  like  mine ;  don't  mind  me,  old  man,  go  back  to  bed." 

Antony  came  over  and  tried  to  pull  him  up,  but  the 
stranger  was  immense,  as  big  as  himself,  and  determined 
and  happy.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  pass  his  night 
on  the  floor. 

Antony  rang  his  bell  in  vain,  then  sighed,  himself 
overcome  with  sleep.  To  the  young  man  who  barricaded 

225 


226  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

the  door,  and  who  was  already  beginning  to  drowse,  he 
said  pleasantly  — 

"  Give  us  your  hat,  anyway,  and  take  off  your  coat." 
"  Now  you  go  back  to  bed,  sir,"  ordered  the  other  with 
solemn  dignity,  "go  back  to  bed,  don't  mind  me.     I'm 
nothing  but  a  little  mountain  flower,"  he  quoted  patheti- 
cally.    His  head  fell  over,  his  big  body  followed  it. 

Antony  took  one  of  his  pillows,  put  it  under  the  fellow's 
head,  and  turned  in  himself,  amused  by  his  singularly 
companioned  night. 

"What  the  deuce!"  he  heard  the  next  morning  from 
a  voice  not  unpleasant,  although  markedly  Western. 
And  he  opened  his  eyes  to  see  bending  over  him  a  ruffled, 
untidy,  pasty-looking  individual  whom  he  remembered  to 
have  last  seen  sprawling  on  the  floor. 

"  Say,  are  you  in  my  bed  or  am  I  only  out  of  my  own  ?  " 
asked  the  young  man. 

Antony  told  him. 

"  George ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  sitting  down 
on  the  bed  and  taking  his  head  in  his  hands,  "  I  was 
screwed  all  right,  and  I  fell  like  a  barrel  in  the  Falls 
of  Niagara.  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  not 
kicking  up  a  row  here.  My  room  is  next  or  opposite  or 
somewhere,  I  guess  —  that  is,  if  I'm  in  the  Universe." 

Antony  said  that  he  was. 

"I  feel,"  said  the  young  man,  "as  though  its  revolu- 
tions had  accelerated." 

"There's  water  over  there,"  said  Antony;  "you're 
welcome  to  have  it." 

"See  here,"  said  the  total  stranger,  "if  you're  half 
the  brick  you  seem  —  and  you  are  or  you  wouldn't  have  let 
me  snore  all  night  on  the  carpet  —  ring  for  Alphonse  and 
send  him  out  to  get  some  bromo  seltzer.  There's  a 
chemist's  bang  up  against  the  hotel,  and  he's  got  that  line 
of  drugs." 

Fairfax  put  out  his  arm  and  rang  from  the  bed.  The 
young  man  waited  dejectedly;  having  taken  off  his  coat 
and  collar,  he  looked  somewhat  mournfully  at  his  silk  hat 
which,  the  worse  for  his  usage  of  it,  had  rolled  in  a  corner 
of  Fairfax's  room. 

Alphonse,  who  for  a  wonder  was  within  a  few  steps 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  227 

of  the  room,  answered  the  bell,  his  advent  announced 
by  the  shuffling  of  his  old  slippers;  but  before  he  had 
knocked  the  young  man  slid  across  the  room  and  stood 
flat  behind  the  door  so  that,  when  it  opened,  his  presence 
would  not  be  observed  by  the  valet. 

The  man,  for  whom  Fairfax  had  not  yet  had  occasion 
to  ring,  opened  the  door  and  stood  waiting  for  the  order. 
He  was  a  small,  round-faced  fellow  in  a  green  barege 
apron,  that  came  up  and  down  and  all  over  him.  In 
his  hand  he  carried  a  melancholy  feather  duster. 

"  Le  dejeuner,  Monsieur  ?  "  smiled  Alphonse  cordially, 
"  un  cafe  complet  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Antony  eagerly,  "  and  as  well, 
would  you  go  to  the  pharmacy  and  get  me  a  bottle  of 
bromo  seltzer  ?  " 

"  B.Jen,  Monsieur."  The  valet  looked  much  surprised 
and;'considered  Fairfax's  handsome,  healthy  face.  "  Bien, 
Monsieur,"  and  he  waited. 

Fairfax  was  about  to  say :  "  Give  me  my  waistcoat," 
but  remembering  his  secluded  friend,  sprang  out  of  bed 
and  gave  to  Alphonse  a  five-franc  piece. 

"  You're  a  brick,"  said  the  young  man,  coming  out 
from  behind  the  door.  "  I'm  awfully  obliged.  Now  let 
me  get  my  head  in  a  basin  of  water  and  I'll  be  back  with 
you  in  a  jiffy."  And  he  darted  out  evidently  into  the 
next  room,  for  Fairfax  heard  the  door  bang  and  lock. 

Fairfax  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  He  was 
not  utterly  alone  in  France,  he  had  a  drunken  neighbour, 
a  fellow  companion  on  the  sixth  floor  of  the  Universe, 
which,  after  all,  divides  itself  more  or  less  into  stories  in 
more  ways  than  one.  He  opened  his  window  and  let 
in  the  June  morning,  serene  and  lovely.  It  shone  on  him 
over  chimney-pots  and  many  roofs  and  slender  towers 
in  the  far  distance.  He  heard  the  dim  noise  of  the  streets. 
He  had  gone  as  far  in  his  toilet  as  mixing  the  shaving 
water,  when  the  valet  returned  with  a  tray  and  presented 
Fairfax  with  his  first  "  petit  dejeuner  "  in  France.  The 
young  man  thought  it  tempting  —  butter  in  a  golden  pat, 
with  a  flower  stamped  on  it.  The  little  rolls  and  something 
about  the  appearance  of  the  little  meal  suggested  his  New 
Orleans  home  —  he  half  looked  to  see  a  dusky  face  beam  on 
him  — "  Massa  Tony,  chile  "-  -  and  the  vines  at  the  window. 


228  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"Void,  Monsieur."  Alphonse  indicated  the  bromide. 
"I  think  everything  is  here."  The  intelligent  servant 
had  perceived  the  crushed  silk  hat  in  the  corner  and  gave 
a  little  cough  behind  his  hand. 

Fairfax,  six  feet  and  more  in  his  stockings,  blond  and 
good  to  look  at,  his  bright  humour,  his  charm,  his  soft 
Creole  accent,  pleased  Alphonse. 

"I  see  Monsieur  has  not  unpacked  his  things.  If  I 
can  serve  Monsieur  he  has  only  to  ask  me."  Alphonse 
picked  up  the  opera  hat,  straightened  it  out  and  looked  at 
it.  "  Shall  I  hang  this  up,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Do,  behind  the  door,  Alphonse." 

The  man  did  so  and  withdrew,  and  no  sooner  his 
rapid,  light  footsteps  patted  down  the  hall-way  than 
Fairfax  eagerly  seated  himself  before  his  breakfast  and 
poured  out  his  excellent  cafe  au  lait.  The  door  was 
softly  pushed  in  again,  shut  to  and  locked  —  the  dissipated 
young  gentleman  seemed  extremely  partial  to  locked  doors 
—  and  Fairfax's  companion  of  the  night  before  said  in  an 
undertone  — 

"  Go  slow,  nobody  in  the  hotel  knows  I'm  in  it." 

Fairfax,  who  was  not  going  slow  over  his  breakfast, 
indicated  the  opera  hat  behind  the  door  and  the  bromide. 

"  Hurrah  for  you  and  Alphonse,"  exclaimed  the  young 
fellow,  who  prepared  himself  a  pick-me-up  eagerly,  and 
without  invitation  seated  himself  at  Fairfax's  table. 

A  good-looking  young  man  of  twenty-five,  not  more, 
with  a  cheerful,  intelligent  face  in  sober  moments,  now 
pale,  with  parched  lips  and  eyes  not  clear  yet.  He  had 
washed  and  his  hair  was  smoothly  brushed.  He  had 
no  regularity  of  features  such  as  Fairfax,  being  a  well- 
set-up,  ordinary  young  fellow,  such  as  one  might  see  in 
any  American  college  or  university.  But  there  was  a 
fineness  in  the  lines  of  his  mouth,  a  drollery  and  wit  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  was  thoroughly  agreeable. 

"  I'm  from  the  West,"  he  said,  putting  his  glass  down 
empty.  "Robert  Dearborn,  from  Cincinnati  —  and  I'm 
no  end  obliged  to  you,  old  chap,  whoever  you  are.  You've 
got  a  good  breakfast  there,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Have  some,"  Antony  offered  with  real  generosity, 
for  he  was  famished. 

"Well,"  returned   Dearborn,   "to   tell  you   the   truth, 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  229 

I  feel  as  if  I  were  robbing  a  sleeping  man  to  take  it,  for 
I  know  how  fiendishly  hungry  you  must  be.  But,  by 
Jove,  I  haven't  had  a  thing  to  eat  since  " —  and  he  laughed 
— "  since  I  was  a  child." 

He  rinsed  the  glass  that  had  held  the  bromide,  poured 
out  some  black  coffee  for  himself  and  took  half  of  Fairfax's 
bread  and  half  of  his  flower-stamped  butter,  and  devoured 
it  eagerly.  When  he  had  finished  he  wiped  his  mouth  and 
genially  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Ever  been  hungry  ?  " 

Antony  did  not  tell  him  how  lately. 

"  Good,"  nodded  Dearborn,  "  I  understand.  Passing 
through  Paris  ?  " 

"  Just  arrived." 

"Well,  I've  been  here  for  two  whole  years.  By  the 
way,"  he  questioned  Antony,  "you  haven't  told  me  your 
name." 

Fairfax  hesitated  because  of  a  fancy  that  had  come  into 
his  mind  when  he  had  discovered  the  loss  of  his  fortune. 

"  Thomas  Eainsf ord,"  he  said ;  then,  for  he  could  not 
deny  his  home,  "  from  New  Orleans." 

"  Ah ! "  exclaimed  his  companion,  "  that's  why  you 
speak  such  ripping  French.  Now,  do  you  know,  to  hear 
me  you  wouldn't  think  I'd  seen  a  gendarme  or  a  Parisian 
pavement.  My  Western  accent,  you  must  have  remarked 
it,  refuses  to  mix  with  a  foreign  language.  I  can  speak 
French,"  he  said  calmly,  "  but  they  can't  understand  me 
yet ;  I  have  been  here  two  years." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Dearborn  started  and 
held  up  his  hand. 

"  If  Monsieur  will  give  me  his  boots,"  suggested  the 
mellow  voice  of  Alphonse,  "  I  will  clean  them." 

Fairfax  picked  up  his  boots,  the  big  shoe  and  the  smaller 
one,  and  handed  out  the  pair  through  a  crack  in  the  door. 

When  once  again  the  rabbit  steps  had  pattered  away  — 
"  Go  on  dressing,"  Dearborn  said,  "  don't  let  me  stop  you. 
You  don't  mind  my  sitting  here  a  minute  until  Alphonse 
does  with  his  boot-cleaning  operations.  He's  a  magician  at 
that.  They  keep  their  boots  clean,  here,  if  they  don't  wash." 

Dearborn  made  himself  comfortable,  accepted  a 
cigarette  from  the  packet  the  landlady  had  given  Fairfax, 
and  put  his  feet  on  the  chair  that  Fairfax  had  vacated. 


230  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"I  went  out  last  night  to  a  little  supper  with  some 
friends  of  mine.  The  banquet  rather  used  me  up/' 

He  smiled,  and  Fairfax  saw  how  he  looked  when  he  was 
more  himself.  His  hair,  as  the  water  dried  on  it,  was 
reddish,  he  was  clean-shaven,  his  teeth  were  white  and 
sound,  his  smile  agreeable. 

"  Now,  if  I  hadn't  been  drunk,  I  shouldn't  have  come 
back  to  the  Universe.  I  was  due  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away 
from  here.  They'll  keep  me  when  they  find  me.  I 
haven't  paid  my  bill  here  to  Madame  Poulet  for  six  weeks. 
But  they  are  decent,  trustful  sort  of  people  and  can't 
believe  a  chap  won't  ever  pay.  But  I  was  fool  enough  to 
leave  my  father's  cable  in  my  room  and  Madame  Poulet 
had  it  translated.  I  grant  you  it  wasn't  encouraging  for  a 
creditor,  Rainsford." 

Antony  heard  his  name  used  for  tlie  first  time,  the 
R's  rolled  and  made  the  most  of.  It  seemed  to  bring 
back  the  dead. 

"Listen  to  the  cable,"  said  the  communicative  young 
man :  "  '  You  can  go  to  the  devil.  Not  a  cent  more  from 
me  or  your  mother/  " 

Fairfax,  who  was  tying  his  cravat,  turned  around  and 
smiled,  and  he  limped  over  to  his  visitor. 

"  It's  not  the  most  friendly  telegram  I  ever  heard," 
he  said. 

"  Step-father,"  returned  the  other  briefly.  "  She 
knows  nothing  about  it  —  my  mother,  I  mean.  I've  been 
living  on  her  money  here  for  two  years  and  over  and 
it's  gone ;  but  before  I  take  a  penny  from  him  .  .  ." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Fairfax,  going  back  to  the  mirror 
and  beginning  to  brush  his  hair. 

"  Did  you  ever  have  a  mother  ? "  asked  the  red- 
haired  young  man  with  a  queer  look  on  his  face,  and 
added,  "  I  see  you  have.  Well,  let's  drop  the  subject, 
then,  but  you  may  discuss  step-fathers  all  you  choose." 

Fairfax,  for  he  was  not  Rainsford  yet,  took  a  fancy 
to  his  visitor,  a  fancy  to  his  rough,  deep  voice;  he  liked 
the  eyes  that  were  clearing  fast,  liked  the  kindly  spirited 
face  and  the  ready,  boy-like  confidence. 

"What  are  you  up  to  in  Paris?"  he  asked  Dearborn, 
regarding  him  with  interest. 

"  I'm  a  playwright,"  said  the  other  simply. 


CHAPTER  V 

"  A  PLAYWRIGHT,"  Fairfax  repeated  softly.  If  Dearborn 
had  said  "  Ali  Baba,"  Fairfax  would  scarcely  have  been 
more  surprised. 

"  You  must  know  the  Bohemian  life  here  ?  "  he  asked, 
"  even  possibly  know  some  artists  ?  " 

"  Well,  rather/'  drawled  his  companion ;  "  I  live 
among  them.  I  don't  know  a  single  chap  who  isn't  doing 
something,  burning  the  midnight  oil  or  using  the  daylight 
in  a  studio." 

As  Dearborn  spoke,  Fairfax,  looking  at  him  more 
observantly,  saw  something  in  his  countenance  that 
responded  to  his  own  feelings. 

"  What  are  you  over  here  for,  Eainsf ord  ?  "  asked  the 
Westerner. 

"  I  am  a  sculptor." 

"  Delightful ! "  exclaimed  his  companion.  "  Where 
are  you  going  to  work?  With  Carrier-Belleuse  or 
Rude?" 

"Ah,  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know  where  I  can  go  or 
what  I  can  do." 

His  companion,  with  an  understanding  nod,  said, 
"  Didn't  bring  over  a  gold-mine  with  you,  perhaps  ?  " 

As  he  said  this  he  laughed,  extended  both  his  hands 
and  jumped  up  from  his  seat. 

"  I  like  you  exceedingly,"  he  exclaimed  heartily. 
"The  governor  had  telegraphed  me  to  go  to  the  devil 
and  I  thought  I'd  take  his  advice.  The  little  supper  I 
was  giving  last  night  was  to  say  good-bye  to  a  hundred- 
franc  note,  some  money  that  I  won  at  poker.  I  might 
have  paid  some  of  this  hotel  bill,  but  I  didn't.  I  wish 
you  had  been  there,  Kainsford!  But,  never  mind,  you 

231 


232  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

had  the  afterglow  anyway !  No,"  he  laughed,  "  let  us 
surprise  them  at  home.  I  don't  quite  know  how,  but 
let's  surprise  them." 

Fairfax  shook  his  head  as  though  he  didn't  quite 
understand. 

"  Is  there  no  one  who  thinks  you  an  insane  fool  for 
going  in  for  art?  Nobody  that  your  success  will  be  gall 
to?" 

"No,  I'm  all  alone." 

"  Come,"  urged  the  other,  too  excited  to  see  the 
sadness  on  his  companion's  face.  "  Come,  isn't  there  some 
one  who  will  cringe  when  your  statues  are  unveiled  ?  " 

"  Stop !  "  cried  Fairfax  eagerly. 

"  Come  on  then,"  cried  the  boy ;  "  whoever  it  may  be, 
your  enemy  or  my  stepfather  —  we  will  surprise  them 
yet!" 


CHAPTEE  VI 

IN  January  of  the  following  year  he  leaned  out  of  the 
window  and  smelled  Paris,  drank  it  in,  penetrated  by  its 
fragrance  and  perfume.  He  saw  the  river  milkily  flowing 
between  the  shores,  the  stones  of  the  quay  parapet,  the 
arches  of  the  bridges,  the  wide  domain  of  roofs  and 
toweps. 

The  Sacre-Coeur  on  Montmartre  had  not  yet  begun  to 
rise,  though  they  were  laying  its  foundation  stones,  and 
his  eyes  travelled,  as  they  always  did,  through  the  fog  to 
the  towers  of  Notre-Dame  with  its  black,  mellow  front 
and  its  melancholy  beauty.  The  bourdon  of  the  bells 
smote  sympathetically  through  him.  No  matter  what 
his  state  of  mind  might  be,  Paris  took  him  out  of  himself, 
and  he  adored  it. 

He  was  looking  upon  the  first  of  the  winter  mists. 
The  first  grey  mystery  had  obscured  the  form  of  the  city. 
Paris  had  a  new  seduction.  He  could  not  believe  now 
that  he  had  not  been  born  in  France  and  been  always 
part  of  the  country  he  had  adopted  by  temperament 
and  spirit.  Like  all  artists,  his  country  was  where  he 
worked  the  best.  For  him  now,  unless  the  place  were  a 
workshop,  it  could  never  be  a  hearthstone,  and  he  took 
satisfaction  in  recalling  his  ancestry  on  his  mother's 
side  —  Debaillet,  or,  as  they  called  it  in  New  Orleans, 
Ballet.  As  Arabella  Ballet  his  mother  had  been  beautiful ; 
as  Mrs.  Fairfax  she  had  given  him  Irish  and  French  blood. 

"Atavism,"  he  said  to  Dearborn,  "you  cannot  love 
this  place  as  I  do,  Bob.  My  grandfather  escaped  in  the 
disguise  of  a  French  cook  to  save  his  head  in  1793.  I 
seem  to  see  his  figure  walking  before  me  when  I  cross 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  and  the  shadow  of  the  guillotine 

falls  across  his  path." 

233 


234  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

From  his  corner  of  the  room  Dearborn  drawled, 
"  If  the  substance  of  the  guillotine  had  fallen  across 
his  neck,  Tony,  where  would  you  be  in  our  mutual 
history  ?  " 

Antony  had  asked  his  companion  to  call  him  Tony. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  disassociate  himself  with  every- 
thing that  recalled  the  past. 

Fairfax's  figure  as  he  turned  was  dark  against  the 
light  of  the  window  and  the  room  was  full  of  the  shadows 
of  the  early  January  twilight.  He  wore  a  pair  of  velveteen 
breeches  whose  original  colour  might  have  been  a  dark, 
rich  blue.  His  flannel  shirt  (no  longer  red)  was  fastened 
loosely  at  the  neck  by  a  soft  black  cravat  under  a  rolling 
collar.  It  was  Sunday  and  he  was  working,  the  clay 
white  upon  his  fingers  and  nails.  He  wore  an  old  pair  of 
slippers,  and  Dearborn  on  a  couch  in  a  corner  watched  him, 
a  Turkish  drapery  wound  around  his  shoulders,  for  the 
big  room  was  chilly  and  it  smelled  of  clay  and  tobacco 
smoke.  The  studio  was  an  enormous  attic,  running  the 
length  of  an  hotel  once  of  some  magnificence,  now  a 
tumble-down  bit  of  still  beautiful  architecture.  The  room 
was  portioned  off  for  the  use  of  two  people.  Two  couches 
served  in  the  night-time  as  their  beds,  there  was  a  small 
stove  guiltless  of  fire,  a  few  pieces  of  studio  property,  a 
skylight,  a  desk  covered  with  papers  and  books  and  manu- 
scripts, and  in  the  part  of  the  room  near  the  window  and 
under  the  skylight,  Tony  Fairfax,  now  Thomas  Eainsford, 
worked  among  his  casts  and  drawings,  amidst  the  barrels 
of  clay  and  plaster.  To  him,  in  spite  of  being  almost 
always  hungry,  in  spite  of  the  discomfort,  of  the  constant 
presence  and  companionship  of  another  when  he  often 
longed  for  solitude,'  in  spite  of  this,  his  domain  was  a 
heaven.  He  had  come  into  the  place  in  June  with 
Dearborn. 

Tony  had  paid  a  year's  rent  in  advance.  He  was 
working  as  a  common  journeyman  in  the  studio  of  Barye, 
and  early  in  the  morning,  late  at  night,  and  on  Sundays, 
worked  for  himself  eagerly,  hungrily,  like  the  slave  of 
old  in  Albany,  and  yet,  with  what  a  difference!  He  had 
no  one  but  himself  to  consider,  but  had  the  interest  of 
the  atelier  where  he  studied,  even  as  he  sold  his  skill 
that  it  might  be  lost  in  the  creations  of  more  advanced 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  235 

artists,  and  there,  during  the  days  of  his  apprenticeship, 
his  visions  came  to  him,  and  what  conceptions  he  then  had 
he  tried  to  work  out  and  to  mature,  when  he  had  the  chance, 
in  his  own  room. 

Dearborn,  who  never  left  the  studio  except  to  eat, 
smoked  and  worked  and  read  all  day. 

The  two  men  were  sufficiently  of  a  size  to  wear  each 
other's  clothes.  They  had  thought  it  out  carefully  and 
had  preserved  from  the  holocaust,  of  the  different  financial 
crises,  one  complete  out-of-door  outfit,  from  hat  to  boots  — 
and  those  boots ! 

It  was  "  deplorable "  the  bookseller,  whose  little  shelf 
of  books  lay  on  the  stone  wall  of  the  quay,  said,  it  was 
"  deplorable "  that  such  a  fine  pair  of  men  should  be 
lame  and  in  exactly  the  same  fashion.  Fairfax  could 
not  walk  at  all  in  the  other  man's  shoes,  so  his  normal 
frierid  made  the  sacrifice  and  the  proper  shoes  were  pawned, 
and  Eobert  Dearborn  and  Tony  Fairfax  had  shared 
alternately  the  big  boot  and  the  small  one,  the  light  and 
the  heavy  step.  And  they  were  directed  by  such  different 
individuals,  the  boots  went  through  Paris  in  such  diverse 
ways! 

"  By  Jove ! "  exclaimed  Dearborn,  examining  the 
boots  carefully,  "  it  isn't  fair.  You're  walking  these 
boots  of  ours  to  death !  Who  the  deuce  will  take  them 
out  in  his  bare  feet  to  be  repaired  ?  " 

They  were  just  as  absurdly  poor  as  this.  Nobody 
whose  soul  is  not  absorbed  in  art  can  ever  understand  what 
it  is  to  be  so  stupidly  poor. 

Dearborn,  when  he  could  be  forced  out  of  the  house, 
put  on  the  shoes  with  reluctance;  he  was  greatly  annoyed 
by  the  clatter  of  the  big  boot.  The  shoes  didn't  fit  him 
in  the  least.  He  would  shuffle  into  the  nearest  cafe,  if 
his  credit  was  good  enough  to  permit  it,  and  there,  under 
the  small  table  on  which  he  wrote  page  after  page  over 
his  cigarette  and  cup  of  black  coffee,  he  hid  the  big 
awkward  shoe  for  as  long  as  he  could  endure  exile  from 
the  studio.  Then  he  came  home. 

Fairfax  swung  the  boot  down  the  stairs,  he  swung  it 
along  the  pavements  of  Paris!  What  distance  he  took 
it!  It  seemed  to  have  a  wing  at  the  heel.  It  tramped 
through  the  quarters  of  the  city  from  the  quays  to  fine 


236  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

old  streets,  to  forgotten  alleys,  to  the  Cite  on  the  He,  then 
again  by  the  fresh  gay  avenues  of  the  Champs  Elysees  to 
the  Bois,  again  to  the  quays,  and,  when  well  up  the  river, 
he  would  sometimes  board  the  boat  and  come  back  down 
the  Seine,  dreaming,  musing,  creating,  and,  floating  home, 
would  take  the  big  boot  upstairs. 

"  By  Jove,  Tony ! "  Dearborn  remarked,  examining 
the  boots  closely,  "  it's  not  fair !  One  of  us  will  have  to 
drive  if  you  don't  let  up,  old  man !  " 

Dearborn,  when  he  did  not  haunt  his  cafe  and  when 
inspiration  failed,  would  haunt  the  Bibliotheque  Rationale, 
and  amongst  the  "  Rats  de  litterature  " —  savant,  actor, 
poet,  amongst  the  cold  and  weary  who  lounge  in  the 
chairs  of  the  library  to  dream,  to  get  warm,  and  to  imagine 
real  firesides  with  one's  own  books  and  one's  own  walls 
around  them  —  Dearborn  would  sit  for  hours  poring  over 
old  manuscripts  from  which  he  had  hoped  to  extract  in- 
spiration, listening,  as  do  his  sort,  for  "  the  voices." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  a  year  of  privation,  but  there  were  moments  spent 
on  the  threshold  of  Paradise. 

His  materials,  barrels  of  clay  and  plaster,  were  costly. 
Dearborn  said  that  he  thanked  God  he  had  a  "  metier  " 
requiring  no  further  expenditure  than  a  pot  of  ink  and  a 
lot  of  paper. 

"'-The  ideas,"  he  told  Fairfax,  "  are  expensive,  and  I 
think,  old  man,  that  I  shall  have  to  buy  some.  I  find  that 
they  will  not  come  unless  I  invite  them  to  dinner !  " 

Neither  of  the  young  men  had  made  a  hearty  meal  for 
an  unconsciously  long  time.  The  weather  grew  colder  and 
they  lived  as  they  could  on  Fairfax's  day  wage. 

At  this  time,  when  during  the  hours  of  his  freedom  he 
was  housed  with  his  companion,  Fairfax  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  rush  of  his  ideas  and  his  desire  to  create.  He 
would  not  let  himself  long  for  solitude,  for  he  was  devoted 
to  his  friend  and  grateful  for  his  companionship  and 
affection,  but  a  certain  piece  of  work  had  haunted  him 
since  his  first  Sunday  afternoon  at  the  Louvre,  and  he 
was  eager  to  finish  the  statue  he  had  begun  and  to  send 
it  to  the  Salon. 

The  Visions  no  longer  eluded  him  —  ever  present, 
sometimes  they  overpowered  him  by  their  obsession. 
They  flattered  the  young  man,  seeming  to  embrace  him, 
called  to  him,  uplifted  him  until  heights  levelled  before 
his  eyes  and  became  roads  upon  which  he  walked  lightly, 
and  his  pride  in  his  own  power  grew.  Antony  forgot  to 
be  humble.  He  was  his  own  master  —  he  had  scorned  the 
Academies.  For  several  weeks,  when  he  first  came  to 
Paris,  he  had  posed  as  a  model.  Sitting  there  before  the 
students,  glowing  with  shame  and  pride,  his  heart  was 
defiant,  and  not  one  of  the  students,  who  modelled  the 

237 


238  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

fine  bust  and  head,  imagined  how  ardent  his  heart  was 
or  what  an  artist  posed  for  them.  Often  he  longed  to 
seize  a  tool  from  inefficient  hands  and  say,  "  Here,  my 
children,  like  this,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

He  learned  much  from  the  rare  visits  of  the  Master 
and  his  cursory,  hasty  criticism,  but  he  welcomed  the 
impersonal  labour  in  the  atelier  of  Barye,  where  he  was 
not  a  student  but  a  worker,  mechanical  supposedly, 
yet  creative  to  his  fingertips.  And  as  he  watched  Barye 
work,  admiring  him  profoundly,  eager  for  the  man's 
praise,  crushing  down  his  own  individuality,  careful  to  do 
nothing  but  the  technical,  mechanical  things  he  was  given 
to  do  there  —  before  his  hand  grew  tired,  while  his  brain 
was  fresh,  he  would  plan  and  dream  of  what  he  would  do 
in  his  own  attic,  and  he  went  back  as  a  thirsty  man  to  a 
source. 

There  came  the  dead  season.  Barye  shut  his  atelier 
and  went  to  Spain.  There  was  nothing  to  do  for  Antony 
Fairfax  and  he  was  without  any  means  of  making  his 
bread.  After  a  few  days  of  idleness,  when  his  hands  and 
feet  were  chilblained  and  he  could  hardly  pass  the  cafes 
and  restaurants,  where  the  meals  were  cooking,  without 
a  tightening  of  the  chest,  he  thought  to  himself,  "  ISTow 
is  the  time  for  the  competition  money  to  fall  among 
us  like  a  shower  of  gold " ;  but  he  had  not  heard  one 
word  from  America  or  from  Falutini,  to  whom  the  result 
was  to  have  been  written  and  who  had  Fairfax's 
address. 

Dearborn,  in  a  pair  of  old  tennis  trousers,  a  shabby 
black  velvet  jacket,  sat  Turkish  fashion  on  his  divan,  his 
writing  tablet  on  his  knees.  For  weeks  past  he  had  been 
writing  a  five-act  play  — 

"  Too  hungry,  Tony,  by  Jove,  to  go  on.  Every  time 
I  start  to  write,  the  lines  of  some  old-time  menu  run  across 
the  page  —  Canards  a  la  presse,'  Potage  a  la  Reine.  Just 
now  it  was  only  pie  and  yellow  cheese,  such  as  we  have  out 
in  Cincinnati." 

Fairfax  was  breaking  a  mould.  By  common  consent 
a  fire  had  been  built  in  the  stove.  Tony  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  warm  water  to  mix  his  plaster.  Dear- 
born came  over  from  his  sofa. 

"I  wouldn't  care  to  have  a  barrel  of  plaster  roll  on 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  239 


with  us 


those  chilblains  of  mine,  Tony.     It's  a  toss  up 
now,  isn't  it,  which  of  us  can  wear  the  boots  ?  " 

Pinched  and  haggard,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  the 
young  fellow  watched  the  sculptor.  Fairfax  skilfully 
released  his  statue  from  the  mould.  He  had  been  working 
on  this,  with  other  things,  for  a  month.  He  unprisoned 
the  little  figurine,  a  little  nude  dancer,  her  arms  above 
her  head,  the  face  and  smile  faun-like. 

"  Pleine  de  malice,"  said  Dearborn,  "  extremement 
fine,  my  dear  Tony.  As  an  object  of  'luxe'  I  find  it 
as  exquisite  as  an  article  of  food,  if  not  as  satisfying. 
It's  not  good  enough  to  eat,  Tony,  and  those  are  the 
only  standards  I  judge  by  now." 

Fairfax  turned  the  figure  between  his  fingers  lovingly  — 
lily-white,  freshly  cold,  bits  of  the  mould  clinging  to  it, 
small  and  fine,  it  lay  in  the  palm  of  his  shapely  hand. 

<<rlf  you  don't  want  the  boots,  Bob,"  he  said,  "  I  think 
I'll  go  out  in  them." 

The  legal  owner  of  the  boots  went  out  in  them  into  the 
damp,  bitter  cold.  His  big  figure  cut  along  through  the 
mist  and  he  limped  over  the  Pont  des  Arts  towards  the 
Louvre.  All  Paris  seemed  to  him  blue  with  cold.  The 
river  flowed  between  its  banks  with  suppressed  intent 
and  powerful  westward  rush,  and  its  mighty  flow  expressed 
indifference  to  the  life  and  passion  of  existence  along  its 
shores. 

He  leaned  a  moment  on  the  bridge.  Paris  was  personal 
to  him  and  the  river  was  like  its  soul.  He  was  faint  from 
lack  of  food  and  overstrain. 

In  the  Louvre,  other  men  of  conglomerate  costumes 
as  well  as  he  sought  the  warm  rooms.  Tramps,  vagrants 
in  pitiful  rags,  affected  interest  in  the  works  of  art,  resting 
their  worn  figures  on  the  benches,  exulting  in  the  public 
welcome  of  the  museum.  Fairfax  was  more  presentable, 
if  as  poor.  He  wore  a  soft  black  hat  of  good  make  and 
quality,  bought  in  a  sporting  moment  by  Dearborn  early 
in  his  career.  Tony  wore  his  own  clothes,  retained 
because  they  were  the  newest,  and  a  soft  black  scarf,  the 
vogue  in  the  quarter,  was  tied  under  his  collar  in  rather 
an  extravagant  bow.  He  wandered  aimlessly  through  the 
rooms,  glanced  at  the  visitors  and  saw  that  they  were 
many,  and  when  he  had  become  thoroughly  warm, 


240  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

screwed  his  courage  to  the  sticking  point  and  went  out  of 
the  front  entrance.  A  little  way  from  the  guides  he  took 
his  place,  and  from  his  pocket  his  figurine.  It  showed  quite 
as  a  lily  in  the  foggy  light,  pale  and  ashamed.  Its  nudity 
appealed  more  to  the  sculptor  because  of  this  wanton 
exposure  to  the  vulgar  herd.  He  trembled,  began  to 
regret,  but  offered  it,  holding  it  out  for  sale. 

Some  dozen  people  passed  him,  glanced  at  him  and 
his  small  statue,  but  he  would  have  passed  unnoticed  had 
a  lady  not  come  slowly  down  the  steps  and  seen  him, 
stopped  and  looked  at  him,  though  he  did  not  see  her 
until  she  had  approached.  He  flamed  scarlet,  covered 
his  statuette  and  wished  that  the  cobbles  of  the  pavement 
would  open  and  swallow  him. 

She  was  —  he  thought  of  it  afterward  a  hundred  times  — 
a  woman  of  singular  tact  and  an  illumined  sympathy,  as 
well  as  a  woman  of  exquisite  comprehension. 

"  Mr.  Rainsford ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  have 
something  to  sell?"  she  added,  and  simply,  as  though 
she  spoke  to  an  ordinary  vendor,  yet  he  saw  that  as  she 
spoke  a  lovely  colour  rose  in  her  cheek  under  her  veil, 
and  he  found  that  he  was  not  ashamed  any  more. 

She  put  out  her  hand.  It  came  from  a  mantle  of 
velvet  and  a  cuff  of  costly  fur  —  he  couldn't  have  dreamt 
then  how  costly.  He  lifted  his  hat,  bareheaded  in  the 
cold,  and  laid  the  little  figure  in  her  hand. 

"How  perfectly  charming!"  she  murmured,  holding 
it.  And  the  dryad-like  figure,  with  its  slender  arms 
above  its  head  and  the  faun-like,  brilliant  little  face, 
seemed  perfection  to  her.  She  said  so.  "  What  a  perfect 
thing !  Of  course,  you  have  the  clay  original  ?  " 

Fairfax  could  not  speak.  The  sight  of  this  woman  so 
worldly,  elegant,  sumptuous,  at  the  first  praise  of  his  little 
statue,  he  realized  that  he  was  selling  it,  and  it  struck  him 
as  a  crime  —  his  creation,  his  vision,  hawking  it  as  a  fish- 
wife might  hawk  crabs  in  the  public  street ! 

He  felt  a  great  humiliation  and  could  have  wept  — 
indeed,  tears  did  spring  to  his  eyes  and  the  cold  dried 
them. 

Two  "  sergents  de  ville  "  came  up  to  them. 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur/'  asked  one  of  them,  "  have  you  a 
license  ?  " 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  241 

Fairfax  started,  but  the  lady  holding  the  little  statue 
turned  quickly  to  the  officials  — 

"  A  license  ?     Pourquoi  faire,  mes  amis  ?  " 

"  It  is  against  the  rules  to  sell  anything  in  the  streets 
of  Paris  without  a  license/'  said  the  policeman. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "my  friend  has  just  made  me 
a  gift.  This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine  for  whom  I 
am  waiting  to  take  me  to  my  carriage.  Allez  vous  en," 
she  smiled  at  them,  "  I  will  excuse  you,  and  so  will 
Monsieur." 

She  was  so  perfectly  mistress  of  the  situation  that  he 
had  nothing  to  do  but  leave  himself  in  her  hands. 

"  You  will  let  me  take  you  home,"  she  said,  "  in  what- 
ever direction  you  are  going,"  and  he  followed  her  to  her 
little  carriage,  waiting  before  the  curb. 

S;he  got  in,  gave  the  address  of  his  studio  to  her 
coachman,  and  the  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  he  was 
rolling  over  the  pavement  he  had  so  painfully  traversed 
a  few  hours  before. 

She  talked  to  him  of  the  master,  Cedersholm,  and 
Antony  listened.  She  talked  enthusiastically,  admiringly, 
and  he  parried  her  questions  as  to  when  and  where  he  had 
worked  with  the  Swedish  sculptor.  The  statuette  lay  on 
her  lap. 

At  the  studio  door,  when  Fairfax  left  her,  she  said, 
taking  up  the  self-same  gold  purse  that  he  had  restored 
to  her  in  the  Louvre  seven  months  ago  — 

"  I  hope  that  I  have  enough  money  to  pay  for  this 
treasure,  Mr.  Eainsford.  It's  so  beautiful  that  it  must 
be  very  dear.  What  is  the  price  ?  " 

And  Fairfax,  hot  all  over,  warm  indeed  for  the  first 
time  in  long,  stammered  — 

"Don't  speak  of  price  —  of  course,  I  don't  know  you 
well  enough,  but  if  you  really  like  it,  please  take  it." 

"  Take  it !  "  Mrs.  Faversham  had  cried,  "  but  I  mean 
to  —  I  adore  it.  Mr.  Cedersholm  will  tell  you  how  valuable 
it  is,  but  I  must  pay  you  for  it,  my  dear  Mr.  Rainsford." 

Holding  the  carriage  door  open,  his  fine  face  on  fire 
and  his  blue  eyes  illumined,  he  had  insisted,  and  Antony's 
voice,  his  personality,  his  outstretched  hand  bare,  cold, 
shapely,  charmed  her  and  impressed  her,  and  he  saw  her 
slowly,  unwillingly  accept  his  sudden  gift.  He  had  seen 


242  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PKIDE 

her  embarrassed  suddenly,  as  he  was.  Then  she  had 
driven  away  in  her  carriage,  to  be  lost  in  the  mists  with 
other  people  who  did  not  matter  to  him,  and  poor  as  he 
had  started  out,  poorer,  for  he  had  not  the  statuette,  he 
limped  down  the  stairs  again  and  into  the  street  to  forage 
for  them  both. 

He  thought  whimsically :  "  I  must  feed  up  the  whole 
dramatis  persons  of  old  Bob's  play,  for  he  can't  get  on 
until  he's  fed  up  the  cast !  " 

He  limped  along  the  Rue  du  Bac,  his  cold  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  head  a  little  bent.  But  no  battle  with 
life  now,  be  it  what  it  would,  could  compare  with  his 
battle  in  New  York.  Now,  indeed,  though  he  was  cold 
and  hungry  and  tired,  he  was  the  inhabitant  of  a  city 
that  he  loved,  he  was  working  alone  for  the  art  he  adored. 
He  believed  in  himself  —  not  once  had  he  yet  come  to  the 
period  of  artistic  despair. 

During  these  seven  months  the  little  personal  work 
he  had  been  able  to  do  had  only  whetted  his  desire; 
he  was  young,  possessed  of  great  talent  and  of  brilliant 
imagination,  and  he  was  happy  and  hopeful  and  deter- 
mined; the  physical  wants  did  not  weigh  on  his  spirit 
nor  did  the  long  period  of  labour  injure  his  power  of 
production.  He  chafed,  indeed,  but  he  felt  his  strength 
even  as  he  pulled  against  the  material  things  from  which 
he  had  to  free  himself. 

And  as  Fairfax,  part  of  the  throng,  walked  aimlessly 
up  the  Eue  du  Bac  with  his  problems,  he  walked  less 
alone  that  night  than  ever  in  his  life,  for  he  was  absorbed 
in  the  thought  of  the  woman. 

He  realized  now  how  keenly  he  had  observed  her, 
that  she  was  very  charming  and  very  beautiful.  He 
could  have  drawn  those  dear  features,  the  contour  of  her 
neck  and  chin,  the  poise  of  her  head,  the  curve  of  her 
shoulder,  and,  imperceptible,  but  no  less  real  and  strong, 
her  grace  and  charm  made  her  an  entity  to  him,  so  much 
so  that  she  actually  seemed  to  have  remained  by  his  side, 
and  he  almost  fancied,  as  he  breathed  the  misty  air,  that 
he  breathed  again  the  odour  of  the  scent  that  she  used, 
sweet  and  delicate,  and  that  he  felt  the  touch  of  her 
velvet  sleeve  against  his  coat. 

He  still  had  in  his  possession  one   object,   which,   if 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  243 

pawned,  might  furnish  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  meal. 
It  was  a  little  seal,  belonging  to  his  mother,  set  in  old 
gold. 

This  afternoon,  before  leaving  the  studio,  he  had 
thrust  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  in  case  the  little  statuette 
did  not  sell. 

They  gave  him  five  francs  for  it,  and  he  laid  in  a  stock 
of  provisions,  and  with  his  little  parcel  once  more  he 
limped  up  the  studio  stairs  to  Dearborn,  who,  wrapped  in 
the  coverlet,  waited  by  the  stove. 

He  told  his  story,  and  Dearborn  listened  delightedly, 
his  literary  and  dramatic  sense  pleased  by  the  adventure. 

They  were  talking  of  the  lady  when  the  concierge, 
toward  nine  o'clock,  tapped  at  the  door  and  handed 
Antony  a  thick  blue  envelope,  inscribed  "  Mr.  Thomas 
Rainsford  "  by  a  woman's  hand. 

"  Tony,  old  man,"  said  the  playwright,  as  Antony's 
fingers  trembled  turning  the  page,  "  the  romance  of  a 
poor  young  man  has  begun." 

The  letter  ran  as  follows :  — 

"  MY  DEAE  MR.  EAINSFOED, 

"  I  am  anxious  to  have  a  small  bas-relief  of 
me,  to  give  to  Mr.  Cedersholm  when  he  shall  come  over. 
Would  you  have  time  to  undertake  this  work?  I  can 
pose  when  you  like. 

"  I  know  how  many  claims  a  man  of  talent  hai  upon 
his  time,  and  I  want  to  secure  some  of  yours  and  make  it 
mine.  I  venture  to  send  this  sum  in  advance.  I  hope 
you  will  not  refuse  it.  Perhaps  you  will  dine  with  me 
to-morrow  and  we  will  talk  things  over. 
"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  MARY  FAVERSHAM." 

Fairfax  read  this  letter  twice  —  the  second  time  the 
words  were  not  quite  clear.  He  handed  it  across  the 
table  to  his  companion  silently.  The  five-hundred-franc 
bill  lay  between  the  plate  where  the  veal  had  been  and 
the  empty  coffee  cup. 

Dearborn,  when  he  had  eagerly  read  the  note,  glanced 
up  to  speak  to  Fairfax  and  saw  that  he  had  turned  away 
from  him.  In  his  figure,  as  he  bowed  over,  leaning  his 


244  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

head  upon  his  hands,  there  were  the  first  marks  of  weari- 
ness that  Dearborn  had  ever  seen.  There  had  been 
weariness  in  the  step  that  limped  up  the  stairs  and  crossed 
the  room  when  Fairfax  had  entered  with  the  meagre 
bundle  of  food.  Dearborn  leaned  over  and  saw  his  friend's 
fine  profile,  and  there  was  unmistakably  the  mark  of 
fatigue  on  the  face,  flushed  by  fire  and  lamp-light.  Dear- 
born knew  of  his  companion  very  little.  The  two  had 
housed  together,  come  together,  bits  of  driftwood  on  the 
river  of  life,  drawn  by  sympathy  in  the  current,  and  few 
questions  had  been  asked.  He  knew  that  Eainsford  was 
from  New  Orleans,  that  he  had  studied  in  New  York. 
Of  Antony's  life  he  knew  nothing,  although  he  had  won- 
dered much. 

He  said  now,  lightly,  as  he  handed  the  letter  back, 
"You  haven't  been  playing  perfectly  square  with  me, 
Tony.  I'm  afraid  you  have  been  wearing  the  boots  tinder 
false  pretences,  but,  nevertheless,  I  guess  you  will  have 
to  wear  them  to-morrow  night,  old  man." 

As  Fairfax  did  not  move,  Dearborn  finished  more 
gravely  — 

"  I  would  be  glad  to  hear  anything  you  are  willing  to 
tell  me  about  it." 

Fairfax  turned  slowly  and  put  the  letter  back  in  his 
pocket.  Then  leaning  across  the  table,  in  an  undertone, 
he  told  Dearborn  everything  —  everything.  He  spoke 
quietly  and  did  not  linger,  sketching  for  him  rapidly  his 
life  as  far  as  it  had  gone.  Twice  Dearborn  rose  and  fed 
the  stove  recklessly  with  fuel.  Once  he  stood  up,  took  a 
coverlet  and  wrapped  it  around  him,  and  sat  blinking  like 
a  resurrected  mummy.  And  Fairfax  talked  till  Bella 
flashed  like  a  red  bird  across  the  shadows,  lifted  her  lips 
to  his  and  was  gone.  Molly  shone  from  the  shadows  and 
passed  like  light  through  the  open  door.  And,  last  of 
all,  Mrs.  Faversham  came  and  brought  a  magic  wand  and 
she  lingered,  for  Fairfax  stopped  here. 

He  had  talked  until  morning.  The  dawn  was  grey 
across  the  frosty  pane  when  he  rose  to  throw  himself 
down  on  his  bed  to  sleep.  The  five-hundred-franc  note 
lay  where  he  had  left  it  on  the  table  between  the  empty 
plate  and  the  empty  cup.  The  fire  was  dead  in  the  stove 
and  the  room  was  cold. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  245 

Dearborn,  excited  and  interested,  watched  with  the 
visions  of  Antony's  past  and  the  visions  of  his  own 
creations  for  a  long  time.  And  Fairfax,  exhausted  by  the 
eventful  day,  troubled  by  it,  touched  by  it,  watched  the 
vision  of  a  woman  coming  toward  him,  coming  fatally 
toward  him,  wonderfully  toward  him  —  but  he  was  tired, 
and,  before  she  had  reached  him,  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

ANTONY  waited  in  the  drawing-room  of  her  hotel  in  the 
Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  some  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  she  came  downstairs.  He  thought  later  that  she 
had  purposely  given  him  this  time  to  look  about  and 
grow  accustomed  to  the  atmosphere,  to  the  room  in  which 
he  afterward  more  or  less  lived  for  several  months. 

There  was  not  a  false  note  to  disturb  his  beauty- 
loving  sense.  He  stood  waiting,  on  one  side  a  long  window 
giving  on  a  rose  garden,  as  he  afterward  discovered,  on 
the  other  a  group  in  marble  by  Cedersholm.  He  was 
studying  this  with  interest  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Faversham 
enter  the  room.  She  had  foreseen  that  he  would  not  be 
likely  to  wear  an  evening  dress  and  she  herself  had  put  on 
the  simplest  of  her  frocks.  But  he  thought  her  quite 
dazzling,  and  the  grace  of  her  hands,  and  her  welcome  as 
she  greeted  him,  were  divine  to  the  young  man. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kainsford." 

Instantly  he  bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  She  saw  him 
flush  to  his  fair  hair.  He  felt  a  gratitude  to  her,  a 
thankfulness,  which  awakened  in  him  immediately  the 
strongest  of  emotions. 

She  seemed  to  consider  him  a  distinguished  guest. 
She  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  Eome  when  Mr.  Ceders- 
holm came  over  —  there  would  be  a  little  party  going  down 
to  Italy. 

Fairfax's  eyes  kindled,  and  in  the  few  moments  he 
stood  with  her  there,  in  her  fragrant  drawing-room,  where 
the  fire  in  the  logs  sang  and  whispered  and  the  lamp- 
light threw  its  long,  fair  shadows  on  the  crimson  floors 
and  melted  in  the  crimson  hangings,  he  felt  that  he  stood 
with  an  old  friend,  ^with  some  one  he  had  known  his  life 
long  and  known  well,  even  before  he  had  known  —  and 

246 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  247 

there  was  a  poignancy  in  his  treason  —  even  before  he  had 
known  his  mother. 

When  the  doors  were  thrown  open  and  another  visitor 
was  announced,  he  was  jealous  and  regretful  and  glanced 
at  Mrs.  Faversham  as  though  he  thought  she  had  done 
him  a  wrong. 

"  My  vife,  oui,"  said  the  gentleman  who  came  in  and 
who  was  of  a  nationality  whose  type  was  not  yet  familiar 
to  Fairfax.  "  My  wife  is  horsed  to-night,  chere  Madame ; 
she  cannot  come  to  the  dinner  —  a  thousand  pardons." 

"  I  am  sorry  the  Countess  is  ill." 

Potowski,  who  had  been  told  by  his  hostess  not  to 
dress,  had  made  up  for  the  sacrifice  as  brilliantly  as  he 
could.  His  waistcoat  was  of  embroidered  satin,  hia 
cravat  a  naming  scarlet,  and  in  his  button-hole  an  exotic 
flower  which  went  well  with  his  dark,  exotic  face.  He 
was  a  little  ridiculous:  short  and  fat,  with  a  fashion  of 
gesticulating  with  his  hands  as  though  he  were  swimming 
into  society,  but  his  expression  was  agreeable  and  candid. 
His  near-sighted  eyes  were  naive,  his  voice  sweet  and 
caressing.  Rainsford  saw  that  his  hostess  liked  Potowski. 
She  was  too  sweet  a  lady  to  be  annoyed  by  peculiarities. 

In  a  few  moments,  the  lame  sculptor  on  one  side  and 
the  flashy  Slav  on  the  other,  she  led  them  to  the  little 
dining-room,  to  an  exquisite  table,  served  by  two  men  in 
livery. 

There  was  an  intimacy  in  the  apartment  shut  in  by 
the  panelling  from  floor  to  ceiling  of  the  walls.  The 
windows  were  covered  with  yellow  damask  curtains  and 
the  footfalls  made  no  sound  on  the  thick  carpet. 

"  Mr.  Rainsford  is  a  sculptor,"  his  hostess  told 
Potowski.  "  He  has  studied  with  C'edersholm,  but  we 
shall  soon  forget  whose  pupil  he  is  when  he  is  a  master 
himself." 

"  Ah/'  murmured  the  young  man,  who  was  never- 
theless thrilled. 

"  He  is  going  to  do  a  bas-relief  of  me,  Potowski  — 
that  is,  I  hope  he  will  not  refuse  to  make  my  portrait." 

"Ah,  no,"  exclaimed  Potowski,  clasping  his  soft 
hands,  "not  a  bas-relief,  chere  Madame,  but  a  statuary, 
all  of  it.  The  figure,  is  not  it,  Mr.  Rainsford?  You  hear 
people  say  of  the  face  it  is  beautiful,  or  the  hand,  or  the 


248  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

head  of  a  woman.  I  think  it  is  all  of  her.  It  should  be 
the  entirety  always,  I  think.  I  think  it  is  monstrous  to 
dissect  the  parts  of  the  human  body  even  in  art.  When 
I  go  to  the  Museo  and  see  a  hand  here,  a  foot  there,  a 
torso  somewhere  else  —  you  will  laugh,  I  am  ridiculous, 
but  it  makes  me  think  I  look  at  a  haccident. 

"Therefore"  exclaimed  Potowski,  gaily  swimming 
toward  the  fruit  and  flowers  with  his  soft  hand,  "begin, 
cher  Monsieur,  by  making  a  whole  woman!  I  never, 
never  sing  part  of  a  hopera.  I  sing  a  lyric,  a  little  complete 
song,  but  in  its  entirety." 

"But,  my  dear  Potowski,"  Mrs.  Faversham  laughed, 
"  a  bas-relief  or  a  bust  is  complete." 

"But  why,"  cried  the  Pole,  "why  behead  a  lady? 
As  for  a  profile,  it  is  destruction  to  the  human  face."  He 
turned  to  Fairfax.  "You  think  I  am  a  pagan.  In 
France  they  have  an  impolite  proverb,  '  Stupid  as  a 
musician/  but  don't  think  it  is  true.  We  see  harmony 
and  melody  in  everything." 

Apparently  Potowski's  lunacy  had  suggested  some- 
thing to  Fairfax,  for  he  said  seriously  — 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Faversham  will  let  me  make  a  figure 
of  her  some  day  " —  he  hesitated  — "  in  the  entirety,"  he 
quoted;  and  the  words  sounded  madness,  tremendously 
personal,  tremendously  daring.  "  A  figure  of  her  standing 
in  a  long  cloak  edged  with  fur,  holding  a  little  statuette 
in  her  hand." 

"  Charming,"  gurgled  Potowski  —  he  had  a  grape  in  his 
mouth  which  he  had  culled  unceremoniously  from  the 
fruit  dish.  "  That  is  a  very  modern  idea,  Eainsford,  but 
I  don't  understand  why  she  should  hold  a  statuette  in  her 
hand." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  hostess,  "  I  only  understand 
what  I  have  been  taught.  I  am  a  common-place  public, 
and  I  prefer  a  classic  bas-relief,  a  profile,  just  a  little 
delicate  study.  Will  you  make  it  for  me,  Mr.  Kainsf ord  ?  " 

The  new  name  he  had  chosen,  and  which  was  never 
real  to  him,  sounded  pleasantly  on  her  lips,  and  it  gave 
him,  for  the  first  time,  a  personality.  His  past  was 
slipping  from  him ;  he  glanced  around  the  oval  room  with 
its  soft  lights  and  its  warm  colouring.  It  glowed  like  a 
beautiful  setting  for  the  pearl  which  was  the  lady.  The 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  249 

dinner  before  him  was  delicious.  It  ceased  to  be  food  — 
it  was  a  delicate  refreshment.  The  perfume  of  the 
flowers  and  wines  and  the  cooking  was  intoxicating. 

"You  eat  and  drink  nothing,"  Mrs.  Faversham  said 
to  him. 

"No,"  exclaimed  Potowski,  sympathetically,  peering 
across  the  table  at  Eainsford.  "  You  are  suffering  perhaps 
—  you  diet  ?  " 

Antony  drank  the  champagne  in  his  glass  and  said  he 
was  thinking  of  his  bas-relief. 

Potowski,  adjusting  a  single  eye-glass  in  his  eye, 
stared  through  it  at  Rainsford. 

"  You  should  do  everything  in  its  entirety,  Mr.  Rains- 
ford.  Eat,  drink,  sculpt  and  sing,"  and  he  swam  out 
again  gently  toward  Rainsford  and  Mrs.  Faversham,  "  and 
love,-* 

Antony  smiled  on  them  both  his  radiant  smile.  "  Ah, 
sir,"  he  said,  "  is  not  that  just  the  thing  it  is  hard  for  us 
all  not  to  do?  We  mutilate  the  rest,  our  art  and  our 
endeavours,  but  a  young  man  usually  once  in  his  life  loves 
in  entirety." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Pole  thoughtfully,  "  I  think 
perhaps  not.  Sometimes  it's  the  head,  or  the  hands, 
or  the  figure,  something  we  call  perfect  or  beautiful  as 
long  as  it  lasts,  Mr.  Rainsford,  but  if  we  loved  the  entirety 
there  would  be  no  broken  marriages." 

Mrs.  Faversham,  whom  the  musician  entertained  and 
amused,  laughed  softly  and  rose,  and,  a  man  on  each 
side  of  her,  went  into  the  drawing-room,  to  the  fire  burning 
across  the  andirons.  Coffee  and  liqueurs  were  brought 
and  put  on  a  small  table. 

"  Potowski  is  a  philosopher,  is  he  not,  Mr.  Rainsford  ? 
When  you  hear  him  sing,  though,  you  will  find  that  his 
best  argument." 

Potowski  stirred  six  lumps  of  sugar  into  his  small 
coffee  cup,  drank  the  syrup,  drank  a  glass  of  liqueur  with 
a  sort  of  cheerful  eagerness,  and  stood  without  speaking, 
dangling  his  eyeglass  and  looking  into  the  fire.  Mrs. 
Faversham  took  a  deep  chair  and  her  dark,  slim  figure 
was  lost  in  it,  and  Antony,  who  had  lit  his  cigarette, 
leaned  on  the  chimney-piece  near  her. 

She  glanced  at  him,  at  the  deformed  shoe,  at  his  shabby 


250  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

clothes.  He  had  made  his  toilet  as  carefully  as  he  could ; 
his  linen  was  spotless,  his  cravat  new  and  fashioned  in  a 
big  bow.  His  fine,  thoughtful  face,  lit  now  by  the  pleasure 
of  the  evening,  where  spirit  and  courage  were  never  absent 
if  other  marks  were  there;  his  fine  brow  with  the  slightly 
curling  blond  hair  bright  upon  it,  and  the  profound  blue 
of  his  eyes  —  he  was  different  from  any  man  she  had  seen, 
and  she  had  known  many  men  and  been  a  great  favourite 
with  them.  It  pleased  her  to  think  that  she  knew  and 
understood  them  fairly  well.  She  was  thinking  what  she 
could  do  for  this  man.  She  had  wondered  this  suddenly, 
the  day  Fairfax  had  met  her  and  left  her  in  the  Louvre; 
she  had  wondered  more  sincerely  the  evening  she  left  him 
at  his  door.  She  had  asked  him  to  her  house  in  a  spirit 
of  real  kindness,  although  she  had  already  felt  his  charm. 
Looking  at  him  now,  she  thought  that  no  woman  could 
see  him  and  hear  him  speak,  watch  him  for  an  hour,  and 
not  be  conscious  of  that  charm.  She  wondered  what  she 
could  do  for  Mr.  Rainsford. 

"  Sit  there,  won't  you  ?  " —  she  indicated  the  sofa  near 
her — "you  will  find  that  a  comfortable  place  in  which  to 
listen.  Count  Potowski  is  the  one  unmaterial  musician 
I  ever  knew.  Time  and  place,  food  or  feast,  make  no 
difference  to  him." 

Potowski,  without  replying,  turned  abruptly  and  went 
toward  the  next  room,  separated  from  the  salon  by  glass 
doors.  In  another  moment  they  heard  the  prelude  of 
Bohm's  "  Still  as  the  Night/'  and  then  Potowski  began 
to  sing. 


CHAPTEK  IX 

THE  studio  underwent  something  of  a  transformation. 
Dearborn  devoted  himself  to  its  decoration.  The  crisp 
banknote  was  divided  between  the  two  companions. 

Fairfax  ordered  a  suit  of  clothes  on  trust,  a  new  pair 
of  boots  on  trust,  and  bought  outright  sundry  necessaries 
for<hTs  appearance  in  the  world. 

And  Dearborn  spent  too  much  in  making  the  studio 
decent,  and  bought  an  outfit  of  writing  materials,  a  wadded 
dressing-gown  with  fur  collar  and  deep  pockets,  the  cast- 
off  garment  of  some  elegant  rastaquouere,  in  a  second- 
hand clothing  shop  on  the  boulevard.  He  had  no  plans 
for  enjoying  Paris.  He  philosophically  looked  at  the 
cast-off  shoes  that  had  gallantly  limped  with  the  two  of 
them  up  and  down  the  stairs  and  here  and  there  in  the 
streets  on  such  devious  missions.  If  he  should  be  inclined 
to  go  out  he  would  wear  them.  His  slippers  were  his  real 
comfort.  He  devoted  himself  to  the  interior  life  and  to 
his  play.  He  had  the  place  to  himself,  and  after  a  long 
day's  work  he  would  read  or  plan,  looking  out  on  the 
quays  and  the  Louvre,  biting  his  fingers  and  weaving 
new  plots  and  making  youthful  reflections  upon  life. 

In  the  evenings  Fairfax  would  limp  home.  Five 
days  of  the  week  he  went  to  Barye's  studio  and  worked 
for  the  master.  Twice  a  week  he  went  to  the  Avenue  du 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  Just  how  his  friend  spent  his  time 
when  he  was  not  in  the  studio  Dearborn  wondered  vainly. 
The  sculptor  grew  less  and  less  communicative,  almost 
morose.  Tony,  took  to  smoking  countless  cigarettes  and 
sitting  in  the  corner  of  the  big  divan,  his  arms  folded  across 
his  chest,  his  eyes  fixed  on  some  object  which  Dearborn 
could  not  see.  He  would  listen,  or  appear  to,  whilst 
Dearborn  read  his  play;  or  draw  for  him  the  scenario 

251 


252  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

for  a  new  play;  or  the  young  man  would  read  aloud  bits 
of  verse  or  prose  that  he  loved  and  found  inspiring.  And 
Antony,  more  than  once,  could  hear  his  own  voice  as  he 
had  declaimed  aloud  to  the  little  cousins  on  a  winter's 
afternoon,  "  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  how  bitter  chill  it  was,"  or 
some  other  favourite  repeated  to  shining  eyes  and  flushed 
attention.  Very  often  what  Dearborn  read  was  neither 
familiar  nor  distinguishable,  for  Fairfax  was  thinking  about 
other  things.  They  were  not  always  alone  in  the  work- 
room. Dearborn  had  friends,  and  those  of  them  who  had 
not  gone  away  on  other  quests  or  been  starved  out  or 
pushed  out,  would  come  noisily  in  of  an  evening,  bringing 
with  them  perhaps  a  man  with  a  fiddle  and  a  man  with  a 
flute,  and  they  would  dance  and  there  would  be  beer 
and  "madeleines"  and  gay  amusement  of  a  very  in- 
offensive kind,  of  a  youthful  kind.  There  would  be 
dancing  and  singing,  and  sometimes  Fairfax  would  take 
part  in  it  all  and  sing  with  them  in  his  pleasant  baritone 
and  smile  upon  them;  but  he  liked  it  best  when  they  were 
alone,  and  Dearborn  did  too;  and  in  Fairfax's  silence 
and  the  other  man's  absorption  they  nevertheless  daily 
grew  firmer  and  faster  friends. 

"  Bob,"  Fairfax  said  —  and  as  he  spoke  he  abruptly 
interrupted  Dearborn  in  the  most  vital  scene  of  his  act  — 
"  I  can't  take  a  penny  from  her  for  this  portrait." 

Dearborn  dropped  his  manuscript  on  his  knee.  His 
expression  was  that  of  a  slightly  hurt  egotism,  for  he  had 
sat  up  all  night  working  over  this  scene  and  burned  all 
day  to  read  it  to  Fairfax. 

"Well,  anyhow,  don't  ask  me  to  cough  up  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  francs.  That's  all  I  ask,"  he  said  a 
little  curtly. 

"  I  shall  give  her  some  study,  one  of  these  other 
statuettes,"  Fairfax  said  moodily,  "  some  kind  of  return 
for  the  five  hundred  francs." 

"  She  wouldn't  care  for  anything  I  have  got,  would 
she,  Tony  ? "  Dearborn  put  his  hands  in  the  ample 
pockets  and  displayed  his  voluminous  wrapper.  "  I'm 
crazy  about  this  dressing-gown,"  he  said  affectionately. 
"  It  has  warmed  and  sheltered  my  best  thoughts.  It  has 
wrapped  around  and  comforted  my  fainting  heart.  It's 
hatched  ideas  for  me;  it's  been  a  plaidie  to  the  angry 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  253 

airs.  Tony,  she  wouldn't  take  the  dressing-gown,  would 
she?" 

"  Eot ! "  exclaimed  his  friend  fiercely.  "  Don't  be 
an  ass.  Don't  you  see  how  I  feel  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  the  other  simply.  "  I  am  not  a 
mind  reader.  I'm  an  imaginator.  I  can  make  up  a 
lot  of  stuff  about  your  feeling.  I  daresay  I  do  invent. 
You  will  see  this  in  my  play  some  day.  You  are  really 
an  inspiration,  old  man,  but  as  for  having  an  accurate 
idea  of  your  feelings  .  .  . !  For  three  weeks,  ever  since 
that  banknote  fluttered  amongst  the  crumbs  of  our  table, 
you  have  scarcely  said  a  word  to  me,  not  a  whole  para- 
graph." He  shook  his  finger  emphatically.  "  If  I  were 
not  absorbed  myself,  no  doubt  I  should  be  beastly, 
diabolically  lonesome." 

Antony  seemed  entirely  unmoved  by  this  picture. 
"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Rome,  Bob,"  he  began,  then  cried : 
"  No,  I  mean  to  St.  Petersburg." 

"  It  will  be  less  expensive,"  Dearborn  suggested  dryly, 
"  and  considerably  less  travel,  not  to  go  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne." 

"  I  shall  finish  this  portrait  this  week,"  Fairfax 
went  on.  "  Now  I  can't  scrape  it  out  and  begin  again. 
I  have  done  it  twice.  It  would  be  desecration,  for  it's 
mightily  like  her,  and  my  reason  for  my  going  there  is 
over." 

"  Well,  how  about  that  full-length  figure  of  her  in 
furs  and  velvets,  holding  a  little  statuette  in  her  hands, 
that  you  used  to  rave  about  doing?  If  at  first  you  make 
a  bas-relief,  begin  and  begin  again !  There  are  busts  and 
statues,  as  there  are  odes  and  sonnets  and  curtain- 
raisers  and  five-act  tragedies." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Fairfax,  "  there  are  tragedies,  no  doubt 
about  it." 

Fairfax,  smoking,  struggled  with  the  emotions  rising 
in  him  and  which  he  had  no  notion  of  betraying  to  his 
friend.  In  the  corner  where  Dearborn  had  rolled  it, 
for  he  made  the  whole  studio  pretty  much  his  own  now, 
was  the  statue  Fairfax  was  making  of  his  mother.  It  was 
covered  with  a  white  cloth  which  took  the  lines  and  form 
of  the  head  and  shoulders.  It  stood  ghostly  amongst  the 
shadows  of  t^e  room  and  near  it,  on  a  stool,  were  Antony's 


254  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

sculpting  tools,  his  broad  wooden  knives  and  a  barrel  of 
plaster.  His  gaze  wandered  to  these  inanimate  objects, 
nothing  in  themselves,  but  which  suggested  and  made 
possible  and  real  his  art  —  the  reason  for  his  existence. 
Now,  when  he  stopped  modelling  Mrs.  Faversham,  he 
would  go  on  with  the  bust  of  his  mother.  He  turned  his 
eyes  to  Dearborn. 

"  I  have  been  up  there  for  five  weeks ;  I  have  been 
entertained  there  like  a  friend;  I  have  eaten  and  drunk; 
I  have  accepted  her  hospitality;  I  have  gone  with  her 
to  the  plays  and  opera.  I  have  pretty  well  lived  on  her 
money." 

"All  men  of  the  world  do  that/'  Dearborn  said 
reasonably.  "  It's  an  awfully  nice  thing  for  a  woman  to 
have  a  handsome  young  man  whom  she  can  call  on  when 
she  likes." 

Fairfax  ignored  this  and  went  on.  "  I  have  met  her 
friends,  delightful  and  distinguished  people,  who  have 
invited  me  to  their  houses.  I  have  never  gone,  not  once, 
not  even  to  see  Potowski.  Now  I  shall  go  up  next  Sunday 
and  finish  my  work,  and  then  I'm  going  away." 

Dearborn  crossed  his  thin  legs,  his  beloved  knit 
slippers,  a  remnant  of  his  mother's  affection,  dangling  on 
the  toe  of  hii  foot.  He  made  a  telescope  of  his  manu- 
script and  peered  through  it  as  though  he  saw  some 
illumination  at  the  other  end. 

"  You  are  not  serious,  Tony  ?  " 

Antony  left  the  sofa  and  came  over  to  his  friend.  Five 
weeks  of  comparative  comfort  and  comparative  release 
from  the  anxiety  of  existence  —  that  is,  of  material 
existence  —  had  changed  him  wonderfully.  His  contact 
with  worldly  people,  the  entertainments  of  Paris,  the 
stimulant  to  his  mind  and  senses,  his  pleasures,  had 
done  him  good.  His  face  was  something  fuller.  He  had 
come  home  early  from  dining  with  Mrs.  Faversham,  and 
in  his  evening  dress  there  was  an  elegance  about  him  that 
added  to  his  natural  distinction.  In  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  drooped  a  few  violets  from  the  boutonniere  that  had 
been  placed  by  his  plate. 

"  Cedersholm  is  coming  next  week."  He  lit  a  freah 
cigarette. 

"Well,"  returned  Dearborn,  coolly,  "he  is  neither  the 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  *56 

deluge  nor  the  earthquake,  but  he  may  be  the  plague. 
What  has  he  got  to  do  with  you,  old  man  ?  " 

"  She  is  going  to  marry  him/' 

"That/'  said  Dearborn  with  spirit,  "is  rotten.  Now, 
I  will  grant  you  that,  Tony.  It's  rotten  for  her.  Things 
have  got  so  mixed  up  in  your  scenario  that  you  cannot 
frankly  go  and  tell  her  what  a  hog  he  is.  That  is  what 
ought  to  be  done,  though.  She  ought  to  know  what 
kind  of  a  cheat  and  poor  sort  she  is  going  to  marry.  In 
real  life  or  drama  the  simple  thing  never  happens." 
Dearborn  smiled  finely.  "  She  ought  to  know,  but  you 
can't  tell  her." 

"  No,"  laid  his  friend  slowly,  "  nor  would  I.  But 
neither  can  I  meet  him  in  her  house  or  anywhere  else. 
I  think  I  should  strike  him." 

"You  didn't  strike  him,  though,"  said  Dearborn, 
meaningly,  "  when  you  had  a  good  impersonal  chance." 

"  I  wish  I  had." ' 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  they  were  all  going  to  Rome  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Faversham  doesn't  want  to  go." 

"  Ah,"  murmured  Dearborn,  nodding,  "  she  doesn't." 

"  No."  Fairfax  did  not  seem  to  observe  his  friend's 
tone.  "  She  is  mightily  set  on  having  me  meet  Ceders- 
holm.  She  wants  to  have  him  patronize  me,  help  me ! " 
He  laughed  dryly  and  walked  up  and  down  the  studio 
into  the  cold,  away  from  the  fire,  and  then  back  to  Dear- 
born in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  "  Patronize  me, 
encourage  me,  pat  me  on  the  back  —  put  me  in  the  way  of 
meeting  men  of  the  world  of  art  and  letters,  possibly 
work  with  him.  She  has  all  sorts  of  kindly  patronizing 
schemes.  But  she  doesn't  know  that  I  have  been  hungry 
and  cold,  and  have  been  housed  and  fed  by  her  money. 
Perhaps  she  does,  though,"  he  cried  furiously  to  Dear- 
born. "  No  doubt  she  does.  Do  you  think  she  does, 
Bob?" 

"  No,  no  —  don't  be  an  ass,  Tony,  old  man." 

"You  see,  now  don't  you,  that  I  can't  stay  in  Paris, 
that  I  can't  meet  that  man  and  knock  him  down  —  not 
tell  her  that  I  am  not  the  poor  insignificant  creature  that 
she  thinks,  that  without  me  Cedersholm  could  not  have 
whipped  up  his  old  brain  and  his  tired  imagination  to 
have  done  the  work  that  brought  him  so  marked  a  succesi. 


256 

I  would  have  to  tell  her  what  I  did,  and  that,  crude  and 
unschooled  as  I  was,  she  would  have  to  see  that  he  was 
afraid  of  me,  afraid  of  my  future  and  my  talent.  Oh, 
Dearborn ! "  he  cried,  throwing  up  his  arms. 

Dearborn  left  his  chair  and  went  to  Fairfax  and  put 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  That's  right,"  he  said  heartily,  "  blurt  it  all  out,  old 
man.  Some  day,  when  the  right  time  comes,  you  will  let 
it  out  to  him." 

Fairfax  leaned  on  Dearborn's  arm.  "There  were 
eight  of  us  at  dinner  to-night,"  he  said,  "  and  Cedersholm 
was  the  general  topic.  He  is  much  admired.  He  is  to 
have  the  Legion  of  Honour.  Much  of  what  they  said 
about  him  was  just,  of  course,  perfectly  just  and  fair,  but 
it  sickened  me.  They  were  enthusiastic  about  his  char- 
acter, his  generosity  to  his  pupils,  his  sympathy  with 
struggling  artists,  and  one  man,  who  had  been  at  the 
unveiling  of  the  Sphinx,  spoke  of  my  Beasts." 

Dearborn  felt  Antony's  hand  trembling  on  his 
arm. 

"The  gall  rose  up  in  my  throat,  Bob.  I  saw  myself 
working  in  a  sacred  frenzy  in  his  studio,  sweating  blood, 
and  my  joy  over  my  creations.  I  saw  myself  eager, 
hopeful,  ardent,  devoted,  with  a  happy,  cheerful  belief 
in  everybody.  I  had  it  then,  I  did  indeed.  Then  I  saw 
my  ruined  life,  my  wasted  years  as  an  engineer  in  Albany, 
my  miserable,  my  cruel  marriage,  the  things  I  stooped  to 
and  the  degradation  I  might  have  known.  My  mother, 
whom  I  never  saw  again,  called  me  —  my  wife,  my  child, 
passed  before  me  like  ghosts.  If  I  could  have  had  a 
little  encouragement  from  him  then,  only  just  my  due, 
well  ...  I  was  thinking  of  all  those  things  whilst  they 
spoke  of  him,  and  then  I  looked  over  to  her.  .  .  ."  As 
he  spoke  Mrs.  Faversham's  name,  Antony's  voice  softened. 
".  .  .  And  she  was  looking  at  me  so  strangely,  strangely, 
as  though  she  felt  something,  knew  something,  and  my 
silence,  seemed  ungracious  and  proof  of  my  jealousy; 
but  I  could  not  have  said  a  warm  word  in  praise  of  him 
to  save  my  character  in  her  eyes.  When  we  were  alone 
after  dinner  she  asked  me,  in  a  voice  different  to  any  tone 
I  have  heard  from  her,  '  Don't  you  like  Mr.  Cedersholm  ? 
You  don't  seem  to  admire  him.  I  have  never  heard  you 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  257 

speak  his  name,  or  say  a  friendly  word  about  him/  and 
I  couldn't  answer  her  properly,  and  she  seemed  troubled." 

Fairfax  stopped  speaking.  The  two  friends  stood 
mutely  side  by  side.  Then  Antony  said  more  naturally  — 

"  You  see  a  little  of  how  I  feel,  Bob/' 

And  the  other  replied,  "  Yes,  I  see  a  little  of  how  you 
feel  " ;  but  he  continued  with  something  of  his  old  drollery : 
"  I  would  like  to  know  a  little  of  how  she  feels." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Antony's  voice  was  so  curt,  and  his  words  were  so 
short,  that  Dearborn  was  quick  to  understand  that  it 
would  not  be  wise  to  touch  on  the  subject  of  the  woman. 

"  Why,  I  mean,  Tony,  that  it  is  a  valuable  study  for  a 
playwright.  I  should  like  to  understand  the  psychology 
of -all  characters." 

Fairfax  shrugged  impatiently.  "  Confound  you,  you 
are  a  brute.  All  artists  are,  I  reckon.  You  drive  your 
chariot  over  human  hearts  in  order  to  get  a  dramatic 
point." 

Here  the  post  came  and  with  it  a  blue  letter  whose 
colour  was  familiar  to  Dearborn  now,  and  he  busied 
himself  with  his  own  mail  under  the  lamp.  Fairfax 
opened  his  note.  It  had  no  beginning. 

"  If  it  does  not  rain  to-morrow,  will  you  take  me  to 
Versailles  ?  Unless  you  send  me  word  that  you  cannot  go, 
I  will  call  for  you  at  ten  o'clock.  We  will  drive  through 
the  Bois  and  lunch  at  the  Reservoirs." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  Antony  would 
hand  over  his  note  to  Dearborn,  as  he  had  handed  Mrs. 
Faversham's  first  letter  the  night  it  came.  But  he  re- 
placed it  in  its  envelope  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  wrote  her  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  go  to  Versailles. 
He  deserted  his  day's  work  at  Barye's  and  remained  at 
home  modelling.  And  Dearborn,  seeing  Fairfax's  distrac- 
tion, went  out  early  and  did  not  return  until  dark. 
Fairfax  found  himself  alone  again,  alone  with  his  visions, 
alone  with  his  pride,  alone  with  powerful  andtnew  emotions. 

Sometimes  in  January,  in  the  middle  of  the  month, 
days  come  that  surprise  the  Parisians  with  their  incon- 
stancy and  their  softness.  The  sun  shone  out  suddenly 
and  the  sky  was  as  blue  as  in  Italy. 

Fairfax  could  see  the  people  strolling  along  the  quays, 
with  coats  open,  and  the  little  booksellers  did  a  thriv- 
ing business  and  the  "  bateaux  mouche "  shot  off  into 
the  sunlight  bound  toward  the  suburbs  which  Fairfax 
had  learned  in  the  summer  time  to  know  and  love. 
Versailles  would  be  divine  on  such  a  day. 

His  hours  spent  at  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne 
must  have  been  impersonal.  His  first  essay  he  destroyed 
and  began  again.  He  did  not  want  to  bring  these  intimate 
visits  suddenly  to  an  end.  But  when  his  sitter  very 
courteously  began  to  question  him,  he  was  uncommuni- 
cative. He  could  not  tell  her  the  truth.  He  did  not 
wish  to  romance  or  to  lie  to  her.  Mrs.  Faversham,  both 
sensitive  and  "fine,"  respected  his  reticence.  But  she 
found  out  about  him.  They  talked  of  art  and  letters 
and  life  in  general,  circling  around  life  in  particular,  and 
Fairfax  revealed  himself  more  than  he  knew,  although  of 
his  actual  existence  he  told  nothing.  He  enjoyed  the 
charm  of  the  society  of  a  worldly  woman,  of  a  clever 
woman.  He  fed  his  mind  and  cultivated  his  taste, 
delighted  his  eyes  with  the  graceful  picture  she  made, 
sitting,  her  head  on  her  hand,  posing  for  her  portrait. 

258 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  259 

Her  features  were  not  perfect,  but  the  ensemble  was 
lovely  and  he  modelled  with  tenderness  and  pleasure 
until  the  little  bas-relief  was  magically  like  her.  He 
was  forced  to  remember  that  the  study  was  intended  as  a 
present  for  Cedersholm.  He  was  very  silent  and  very 
often  wondered  why  she  asked  him  so  constantly  to  her 
house,  why  she  should  be  so  interested  in  so  ungracious  a 
companion.  This  morning,  in  his  studio  on  the  Quai,  he 
unwrapped  his  statue  of  his  mother.  It  was  a  figure 
sitting  in  her  chair,  a  book  in  her  hand,  as  he  had  seen  her 
countless  times  on  the  veranda  of  the  New  Orleans 
house,  dreaming,  her  face  lifted,  her  eyes  looking  into  the 
distance.  He  went  back  to  his  work  with  complicated 
feelings  and  a  heart  at  which  there  was  a  new  ache.  He 
ha4"hardly  expected  that  this  statue,  left  when  he  had 
gone  to  take  up  the  study  of  another  woman,  would 
charm  him  as  it  did.  He  began  to  model.  As  he  worked, 
he  thought  the  face  was  singularly  like  Bella's  —  a  touch 
to  the  head,  to  the  lips,  and  it  was  still  more  like  the 
young  girl.  Another  year  was  gone.  Bella  was  a  woman 
now.  Everything,  as  he  modelled,  came  back  to  him 
vividly  —  all  the  American  life,  with  its  rush  and  struggle. 
So  closely  did  it  come,  so  near  to  him,  that  he  threw  down 
his  tools  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  sunlight  pouring 
through  the  big  window.  He  took  up  his  tools  and  began 
modelling  again.  The  statuette  was  tenderly  like  his 
mother.  He  smoothed  the  folds  at  her  waist  —  and  saw 
under  the  clay  the  colour  of  the  violet  lawn  with  its 
sprinkling  flowers  of  darker  violet.  He  touched  the 
frills  he  had  indicated  around  the  throat  —  and  felt  the 
stirring  of  the  Southern  breeze  across  his  hand  and 
smelled  the  jasmine.  He  paused  after  working  for  two 
hours,  standing  back,  resting  his  lame  limb  and  musing 
on  the  little  figure.  It  grew  to  suggest  all  womanhood: 
Molly,  as  he  had  seen  her  under  the  lamp-light  —  Mrs. 
Faversham,  as  he  had  watched  her  leaning  on  her  hand  — 
not  Bella.  He  looked  and  thought.  Bella  was  a  child,  a 
little  girl.  There  was  nothing  reposeful  or  meditative 
about  Bella,  yet  he  had  seen  her  pore  over  a  book,  her 
hair  about  her  face.  Would  she  ever  sit  like  this,  tranquil, 
reposeful,  reading,  dreaming?  The  face  was  like  her, 
but  the  resemblance  passed. 


CHAPTEK  XI 

MRS.  FAVERSHAM'S  dresses  and  jewels,  her  luxuries,  her 
carriages  and  her  horses,  the  extravagance  of  her  life,  had 
not  dazzled  Antony;  his  eyes  had  been  pleased,  but  her 
possessions  were  a  distinct  envelope  surrounding  her  and 
separating  them.  After  watching  Potowski's  natatorial 
gestures,  Fairfax  had  longed  to  swim  out  of  the  elegance 
into  a  freer  sea. 

He  had  told  her  nothing  of  his  companion  or  of  his 
life.  He  often  longed  to  stuff  some  of  the  dainties  of  the 
table  into  his  pockets  for  Dearborn,  to  carry  away  some 
of  the  fire  in  his  hands,  to  bring  something  of  the  comfort 
back,  but  he  would  not  have  spoken  for  the  world.  Once 
she  had  broached  the  subject  of  further  payment,  and 
had  seen  by  his  tightening  lips  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake.  In  spite  of  the  fact  of  his  reserve  and  that  he 
was  proud  to  coldness  and  sometimes  not  quite  kind, 
intimacy  grew  between  them.  Mrs.  Faversham  was 
engaged  to  be  married,  but  Fairfax  did  not  believe  that 
she  loved  Cedersholm.  What  her  feelings  were,  or  why 
she  wanted  to  marry  him,  he  could  not  guess.  The 
intimacy  between  them  was  caused  by  what  they  knew 
of  each  other  as  human  beings,  unknown,  unexplained, 
unformulated.  There  was  a  tremendous  sympathy,  and 
neither  the  man  nor  the  woman  knew  how  real  it  was. 
And  although  there  was  her  life  —  she  was  five  years  his 
senior  —  and  his  life  with  its  tragedies,  its  depths  and  its 
ascensions,  although  there  was  all  this  unread  and  un- 
spoken between  them,  neither  of  them,  when  they  were 
together,  was  conscious  of  any  past.  A  word,  a  touch, 
a  look,  a  hazard  chance  would  have  revealed  to  them  how 
near  they  stood. 

As  he  went  on  modelling,  he  found  that  he  was  beginning 

260 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  261 

to  think  of  her  as  he  had  not  let  himself  3o  during  the 
weeks  when  she  had  sat  for  him.  He  found  that  he  could 
not  go  on  with  his  work  now  and  think  of  her.  He  had 
voluntarily  denied  himself  this  day  at  Versailles  where 
he  might  have  enjoyed  her  for  hours.  When  she  had  told 
him  that  she  had  written  to  Cedersholm  about  him  he 
had  smiled. 

"  He  will  not  recall  my  name.  I  was  an  obscure 
pupil  with  others.  He  will  not  remember  Tom  Rains- 
ford." 

Evidently  Cedersholm  had  not  remembered  him. 
The  subject  was  never  mentioned  between  them  again. 
Except  as  he  heard  it  in  general  conversation,  Ceders- 
holm's  name  was  no  longer  frequently  on  Mrs.  Faversham's 
lips:-  He  stopped  working,  wrapped  his  plaster  carefully 
and  pushed  the  stool  back  into  the  corner.  Near  it  was  a 
pile  of  books  which  he  had  carefully  done  up  to  return  to 
Mrs.  Faversham.  She  had  obtained  orders  for  him  from 
her  friends,  none  of  which  he  had  accepted.  Why  should 
he  be  so  churlish?  Why  should  he  refuse  to  take  advan- 
tage of  her  kindness  and  generosity?  Why  should  not 
her  influence  help  him  on  his  stony  way?  What  part 
did  his  pride  play  in  it  ?  Was  it  on  account  of  Cedersholm, 
or  was  it  something  else  ? 

At  noon  he  went  out  to  eat  his  luncheon  in  a  little 
cafe  where  he  was  known  and  popular.  The  little  room 
was  across  a  court-yard  filled  with  potted  plants  on  which 
the  winter  had  laid  icy  fingers,  but  which  to-day  in  the 
sunshine  seemed  to  have  garbed  themselves  with  some- 
thing like  spring.  The  little  restaurant  was  low,  noisy, 
filled  with  the  clatter  and  bustle  of  the  noon  meal  served 
to  hungry  students  and  artists.  The  walls  were  painted 
by  the  brush  of  different  skilful  craftsmen,  young  artists 
who  could  not  pay  their  accounts  and  had  settled  their 
scores  by  leaving  paintings  on  the  walls,  and  one  could 
read  distinguished  names.  When  Fairfax  came  here, 
as  he  sometimes  did,  he  always  took  a  little  table  in  the 
second  and  darker  room  by  another  window  which  gave 
on  a  quiet  court  on  whose  stones  were  heaped  up  the 
statues  and  remains  of  an  old  Louis  XV  palace.  This 
room  was  reserved  for  the  older  and  quieter  clients,  and 
here,  at  another  table  in  the  corner,  a  pretty  girl  with  a 


262  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

shock  of  curly  hair  under  a  soft  hat  and  an  old  cape  and 
an  old  portfolio,  always  ate,  and  she  sometimes  smiled 
at  him.  He  would  catch  her  eye,  and  she  was,  as  Fairfax, 
always  alone. 

Girl-students  and  grisettes,  and  others  less  respectable, 
had  eyed  him  and  elbowed  him,  but  not  one  had  tempted 
him.  There  was  no  merit  in  his  celibacy,  but  to-day, 
as  he  glanced  over  at  the  English  girl-student,  something 
about  her  caught  his  attention  as  never  before.  She  was 
half  turned  to  him;  her  portfolio  lay  on  the  table  at  her 
side  with  the  remains  of  a  scanty  lunch.  Her  head  was 
bowed  on  her  hands.  She  looked  dejected,  forlorn, 
bringing  her  little  unhappiness  to  the  small  restaurant 
where  so  many  stragglers  and  aspirants  brought  their 
hopes  and  their  inspirations.  This  little  bit  of  humanity 
seemed  on  this  day  uninspired,  cast  down,  and  he  had 
remarked  her  generally  before  because  of  her  gaiety,  her 
eagerness,  and  he  had  avoided  her  because  he  knew  that 
she  would  be  sympathetic  with  him. 

In  a  sort  of  revenge  possible  on  himself,  and  feeling 
his  own  loneliness,  he  permitted  himself  to  look  long  at 
her  and  saw  how  miserably  poor  her  dress  was,  how  rusty 
and  dusty  her  cape,  how  trodden  down  were  her  little 
shoes.  She  was  all  in  brown,  from  the  old  beaver  hat  to 
her  boots,  in  a  soft,  old-faded  note  of  colour,  and  her  hair 
wag  gloriously  golden  like  a  chrysanthemum.  As  Antony 
looked  at  her  she  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped 
something  off  her  cheek  and  from  her  eyes.  His  luncheon 
of  steak  and  potatoes  had  been  served  him.  He  took  up 
his  napkin  and  his  dinner  and  limped  over  to  the  table 
where  the  English  girl  sat  bowed  over. 

"Would  you  like  a  comrade  for  luncheon?  Say  so, 
if  you  don't  want  me."  He  saw  her  start,  wipe  her  eyes 
and  look  up  with  a  sob  on  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  don't  mind."  Her  voice  was  stifled. 
"  Sit  down,  it  is  good  of  you." 

The  girl  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  for  a  second 
and  then  wiped  her  eyes  determinedly,  as  if  she  fetched 
herself  out  of  stony  depths.  She  smiled  tremulously 
and  her  lips  were  as  red  and  full  and  sweet  as  a  rose. 

"Garcon,"  he  ordered,  "fetch  two  bocks.  Yes, 
mademoiselle,  it  will  do  you  good." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  263 

"  I  say,"  she  fluttered,  "  were  you  lonely  over  there  in 
your  corner  ?  " 

Fairfax  nodded.  She  put  out  her  little  hand,  atained 
with  paint  and  oil,  and  it  was  cold  and  delicate  as  it 
touched  his.  It  seemed  to  need  the  strength  of  the 
man's  big,  warm  grasp. 

"  I  have  always  liked  your  face,  do  you  know  — 
always,"  she  said.  "  I  knew  that  you  could  be  a  real 
pal  if  you  wanted.  You  are  not  like  the  others.  I 
expect  you  are  a  great  swell  at  something.  Writing?" 

"  No,  I  am  a  workman  in  Barye's  studio  —  a  sculptor." 

"  Oh,"  she  said  incredulously.  "  You  look  '  arrive,' 
awfully  distinguished.  I  expect  you  really  are  something 
splendid." 

The  beer  came  foaming.  The  girl  lifted  her  glasg 
with  a  hand  which  trembled.  Tears  hung  on  her  lashes 
still,  ready  to  fall,  but  she  was  a  little  sport  and  full  of 
character  and  life.  She  nodded  at  Fairfax  and  mur- 
mured — 

"  Here's  to  our  being  friends." 

Her  voice  was  sweet  and  musical.  They  drank  the 
draught  to  friendship. 

Fairfax  asked  cruelly :     "  What  made  you  cry  ?  " 

She  touched  her  portfolio.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  that 
is  the  reason.  My  last  fortnight's  work.  I  draw  at 
Julian's,  and  I  had  a  fearful  criticism  this  morning,  most 
discouraging.  I  am  here  on  my  own."  She  stopped  and 
said  rather  faintly :  "  Why  should  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  We  drank  just  now  to  the  reason  why  you  should." 

"That's  true,"  she  laughed.  "Well,  then,  this  is  my 
last  week  in  Paris.  I  will  have  to  go  back  to  England  and 
drop  painting,  unless  they  tell  me  that  I  am  sure  to  have  a 
career  and  that  it  is  worth  while." 

A  career!  She  was  a  soft,  sweet,  tender  little  creature 
in  spite  of  her  good  comradeship  and  the  brave  little  tilt 
to  her  hat,  and  she  was  fit  for  a  home  nest,  and  no  more 
fit  to  battle  with  the  storm  of  a  career  than  a  young  bird 
with  a  tempest. 

"  Let  me  see  your  portfolio,  will  you  ?  " 

"  First,"  she  said  practically,  "  eat  your  steak  and  your 
potatoes."  Touching  her  eyes,  she  added :  "  I  thought  of 
what  Goethe  said  as  I  cried  here — 'Wer  nie  sein  Brot 


264  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

mit  Thraenen  ass  ' —  only  if  s  not  the  first  bread  and  tears 
that  have  gone  together  in  this  room,  I  expect/' 

"  No,"  returned  Fairfax,  "  I  reckon  not,  and  you  are 
lucky  to  have  the  bread,  Mademoiselle.  Some  have  only 
tears/' 

"  I  know,"  she  returned  softly,  "  and  I  have  been  most 
awfully  lucky  so  far." 

When  they  had  finished  he  made  the  man  clear  away 
the  things,  and  she  spread  out  the  contents  of  her  port- 
folio before  him,  watching  his  face,  as  he  felt,  for  every 
expression.  He  handled  thoughtfully  the  bits  of  card- 
board and  paper,  seeing  on  them  only  the  evidence  of 
a  mediocre  talent,  a  great  deal  of  feeling,  and  the  indica- 
tions of  a  sensitive  nature.  One  by  one  he  looked  at 
them  and  turned  them  over,  and  put  them  back  and  tied 
up  the  green  portfolio  by  its  black  tapes.  Then  he 
looked  at  her,  saw  how  white  her  little  face  had  grown, 
how  big  and  blue  her  eyes  were,  how  childlike  and  in- 
adequate she  seemed  to  life. 

"  You  need  not  speak,"  she  faltered.  "  You  were 
going  to  say  I'm  no  good.  I  don't  want  to  hear  you 
say  it." 

Impulsively,  he  put  out  his  strong  hands  and  took  hers 
that  fluttered  at  her  coat. 

"  Why  should  you  care  for  what  I  say  ?  You  have  your 
masters  and  your  chiefs." 

"  Yes,"  she  nodded,  "  and  they  have  been  awfully 
encouraging,  all  of  them,  until  to-day." 

Fairfax  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "  You  must  not  mind 
if  you  feel  that  you  have  got  it  in  you.  Don't  seek  to  hear 
others'  opinions,  just  go  boldly,  courageously  on.  What 
I  say  has  no  meaning." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  the  colour  came  back 
somewhat  into  her  face. 

"  What  you  say  has  importance,  though,"  she  answered. 
"  I  have  the  feeling  that  you  are  somebody.  Anyhow,  I 
have  watched  you  every  time  you  came.  I  think  you  know 
things.  I  believe  you  must  be  a  great  artist.  I  should 
believe  you  —  I  do  believe  you.  I  see  you  don't  think  I'm 
any  good.  Besnard  didn't  think  so  when  he  came  to-day. 
I  don't  want  to  go  on  being  a  fool." 

As   she   spoke,   from   the    other   restaurant   came   the 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  265 

notes  of  a  fiddle  and  a  flute,  for  two  wandering  musicians, 
habitues  of  these  smaller  cafes,  had  wandered  in  to  earn 
the  price  of  their  luncheon.  They  were  playing,  not  very 
well,  but  very  plaintively,  an  old  French  song,  one  in 
vogue  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  The  sun,  still  magnificently 
brilliant,  had  found  its  way  around  to  the  back  of  the 
place,  and  over  the  court  with  the  ruined  marbles  the 
light  streamed  through  the  window  and  fell  on  Fairfax 
and  the  little  girl. 

"  What  do  you  say/'  he  suggested  abruptly,  "  to  coming 
with  me  for  the  afternoon?  Let's  go  on  the  top  of  a  tram 
and  ride  off  somewhere." 

He  rose,  paid  the  man  who  came  for  his  luncheon 
(the  girl's  score  had  already  been  settled),  and  stood 
waiting.  She  fingered  the  tapes  of  her  closed  portfolio, 
her  lips  still  trembled.  The  sunlight  was  full  on  her, 
shining  on  her  hair,  on  her  old  worn  cape,  on  the  worn 
felt  hat,  on  the  little  figure  which  had  been  so  full  of 
courage  and  of  dreams.  Then  she  looked  up  at  Antony 
and  rose. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said,  and  he  picked  up  the  portfolio, 
tucked  it  under  his  arm,  and  they  walked  out  together, 
through  the  smoky  larger  room  where  part  of  the  lunchers 
were  joining  in  the  chorus  of  the  song  the  musicians 
played.  And  this  little  handful  of  the  Latin  Quarter 
saw  the  two  pass  out  together,  as  two  pass  together  often 
from  those  Bohemian  refuges.  Some  one,  as  the  door 
opened  and  shut  on  Antony  and  the  girl,  cried :  "  Vive 
1'amour ! " 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON  the  way  out  to  Versailles  from  the  top  of  the  tram, 
lifted  high  above  Paris  and  the  river,  alongside  of  the 
vulgar  head,  alongside  of  the  strange  little  English  girl, 
Fairfax  listened  to  the  outpouring  of  her  heart.  She 
took  his  interest  for  granted.  With  an  appreciative 
understanding  of  human  nature,  and  as  though  she  had 
heen  bearing  a  burden  for  years  which  she  had  never 
let  slip,  she  rested  it  now,  and  her  blue  eyes  on  his,  her 
hands  in  the  old  woollen  gloves,  which  she  had  slipped 
on  before  they  started,  clasped  in  her  lap,  she  talked 
to  Fairfax.  By  the  time  the  tram  stopped  before  the 
Palace  of  Versailles,  he  had  heard  her  story.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  an  Irish  clergyman.  Nora  Scarlet  was 
her  name. 

Nora  and  Molly ! 

But  they  were  very  different.  This  girl  was  as  gay 
as  a  lark.  She  laughed  frankly  aloud,  musically,  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  with  a  free  "  camaraderie."  She 
made  sparkling  little  faces  at  him  and  called  him  softly, 
"  Ami." 

"  My  name  is  Nora,  Nora  Scarlet,  but  I  don't  want  you 
to  tell  me  your  name  until  the  end  of  the  day,  please.  It 
is  just  a  silly  idea,  but  I  will  call  you  '  Ami.'  I  daresay 
it  is  a  great  name  you  have  got,  and  I  would  rather  feel 
that  I  don't  want  to  know  it  too  soon." 

She  had  shown  talent  in  the  school  where  she  had 
started  in  Ireland,  and  had  taken  a  scholarship  and  had 
come  to  Paris  to  study,  to  venture  unprepared  and  quite 
wildly  into  the  student  life,  to  struggle  on  small  means 
and  insufficient  food  uphill  toward  art.  She  displayed  in 
talking  a  touching  confidence  in  herself  and  worship  of 
beauty,  as  well  as  a  simple  and  loyal  attitude  toward  life 

266 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  267 

in  general.  She  occupied  a  furnished  room  near  the 
studio  and,  as  she  expressed  it,  "fished  for  herself." 
She  was  the  oldest  of  seven  children,  with  a  weight  of 
responsibility  on  herself.  Her  father's  salary  was  ridic- 
ulous, she  told  him,  not  enough  to  bring  up  one  hungry 
child  well,  much  less  half  a  dozen. 

"  I  thought  that  I  could  support  myself  with  my  art/' 
she  told  Fairfax,  "  and  that  I  should  soon  be  arrivee, 
lancee,  but  to-day,  when  the  criticism  discouraged  me  and 
I  knew  that  I  should  have  to  write  home  for  money 
soon,  well  ...  I'd  not  like  to  tell  you  what  strange 
fancies  came."  She  lifted  up  her  finger  and  pointed  at 
the  river  as  it  lay  between  its  shores.  "  And  now,"  she 
glanced  at  him,  "  when  you  tell  me,  too,  that  I  am  no 
good  "at  painting !  " 

"  I  haven't  said  that,"  remonstrated  Fairfax ;  "  but 
don't  let's  talk  about  work  now,  what  do  you  say?  Let's 
have  a  holiday." 

They  walked  up  the  Palace  over  the  cobbles  of  the 
courtyard  and  paused  to  look  back  at  the  Route  de  Paris, 
that  Miss  Nora  Scarlet  might  thoroughly  picture  the 
procession  of  the  fish-wives  and  the  march  of  the  Paris 
populace  up  to  Versailles,  where  the  people  swept  its 
violent  sea  over  the  royal  courts  and  the  foam  rose  to 
the  windows  where  royal  faces  whitened  against  the 
panes.  Nora  Scarlet  and  Fairfax  wandered  through  the 
great  rooms,  part  of  the  tourist  crowd.  The  handsome 
man  limped,  a  student's  stoop  across  his  shoulders,  by  the 
side  of  the  small  blond  girl  with  her  student  cape  and 
her  soft  hat,  her  hair  like  chrysanthemum  petals.  Fairfax 
took  occasion  in  the  portrait  room  to  tell  her  that  she 
looked  like  a  Greuze.  Nora  Scarlet  was  an  appreciative 
sightseer. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  paint,"  she  murmured,  "  if  I 
could  only  paint !  "  and  she  clasped  her  woollen  gloves 
prayerfully  before  the  portraits  of  the  Filles  de  France. 
But  the  Nattiers  and  the  Fragonards  mocked  her,  and  the 
green  portfolio  under  Fairfax's  arm  mocked  her  still  more. 
Side  by  side,  they  penetrated  into  the  little  rooms  where 
a  Queen  lived,  intrigued,  loved,  and  played  her  part. 
And  Fairfax  had  his  envies  before  Houdon's  head  of  Marie 
Antoinette. 


268  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

The  wide,  sweet,  leaf-strewn  alleys  were  very  nearly 
deserted  where  they  stood,  for  the  day  had  grown  colder 
and  the  winter  sunlight  left  early  to  give  place  to  a  long 
still  winter  evening.  Their  footsteps  made  no  sound  on 
the  brown  carpet  of  the  park.  Antony  had  not  stopped 
to  ask  what  kind  of  a  woman  the  girl  student  was  when 
he  spontaneously  left  his  lonely  seat  in  the  restaurant 
to  take  his  place  at  her  side,  but  everything  she  said  to 
him  revealed  a  frank,  innocent  mind.  He  saw  that  she 
had  come  with  him  without  thinking  twice,  and  he 
should  have  been  touched  by  it.  He  drew  her  arm 
within  his  as  they  passed  the  great  fountain.  The  basin 
was  empty  and  its  curve  as  round  and  smooth  as  human 
lips. 

"Now/'  he  said,  "the  time  has  come  to  talk  of  you 
and  what  you  want  to  do  and  can  do,  and  how  you  can 
do  it." 

"  That's  awfully  kind." 

"  No,  those  are  just  the  questions  that  I  have  to  ask 
myself  every  day  and  find  on  some  days  that  I  haven't 
got  the  answer.  It's  a  riddle,  you  know.  We  don't  every 
day  quite  find  the  answer  to  it.  I  reckon  we  would  never 
go  on  if  we  did,  but  it's  good  sport  to  ask  and  try  to  find 
out,  and,  believe  me,  Miss  Nora  Scarlet,  two  are  better 
than  one  at  a  riddle,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  much."  They  went  along  leisurely  and 
after  a  second  she  continued :  "  It's  lonely  in  Paris  for  a 
girl  who  doesn't  want  to  go  in  for  lots  of  things,  and  I 
have  been  getting  muddled.  But  the  worst  muddle  is 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence  " —  she  laughed  musically  — 
"  it's  reduced  to  pence  at  last,  but  I  don't  find  the  muddle 
reduced  a  bit." 

"  You  want  to  do  portraits  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  haven't  an  idea  about  anything  else." 

The  trees  above  their  heads  made  leafy  bowers  in 
summer,  but  now  between  the  fine  bare  branches,  they 
saw  the  delicate  wintry  sky,  pale  with  the  fading  light  of 
what  had  been  a  rare  January  day. 

"  Suppose  I  get  an  order  for  you  to  paint  a  portrait 
and  you  are  paid  in  advance." 

She  stopped,  holding  him  back  by  the  arm,  and 
exclaimed,  joyously  — 


269 

"  Oh,  but  you  could  not !  " 

"  Suppose  that  I  can.  If  I  do  succeed  and  you  paint 
the  portrait,  will  you  do  something  for  me  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  He  was  much  above 
her.  Nora  Scarlet  had  seen  Fairfax  several  times  a  week 
for  many  months.  She  knew  him  as  well  as  any  person 
can  know  another  by  sight  —  she  knew  his  clothes,  the 
way  he  wore  them.  It  had  been  easy  to  study  his  face 
attentively,  for  he  was  so  absorbed  in  general  that  he  was 
unconscious  of  scrutiny.  She  had  learned  every  one  of 
his  features  pretty  well  by  heart.  Solitary  as  she  was, 
without  companions  or  friends  except  for  her  studio 
mates,  she  had  grown  to  think  as  women  do  of  a  man  they 
choose,  to  surround  him  with  fancies  and  images.  She 
had'  idealized  this  unknown  artist,  and  her  thoughts  kept 
her  company,  and  he  had  become  almost  part  of  her  life 
already.  She  looked  up  at  him  now  and  blushed.  He 
put  his  hand  down  over  hers  lightly. 

"  I  mean  that  when  the  portrait  is  finished,  we  will 
have  it  criticized  by  the  subject  first,  then  by  some  one 
in  whom  you  have  great  confidence,  and  if  you  are 
certain  then  that  you  have  a  vocation,  we  will  see  what 
can  be  done  —  some  way  will  open  up.  There  is  always 
sure  to  be  a  path  toward  the  thing  that  is  to  be.  But 
if  the  criticism  is  unfavourable,  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  to  go  back  to  England  and  to  your  people,  and  to  give 
up  art  as  bravely  as  you  can  —  I  mean,  courageously,  like 
a  good  soldier  who  has  fought  well  and  lost  the  battle. 
Perhaps,"  Fairfax  said,  smiling,  "  if  I  were  not  an  artist 
my  advice  would  be  worth  less,  but  the  place  is  too  full  of 
half-successes.  If  you  can't  be  at  the  top,  don't  fill  up 
the  ranks.  Get  down  as  soon  as  you  can  and  be  another 
kind  of  success." 

The  advice  was  sound  and  practical.  She  listened  to 
his  agreeable  voice,  softened  by  the  Southern  accent. 
She  watched  him  as  he  talked,  but  his  face  was  not 
that  of  an  adviser.  It  was  charmingly  personal  and 
his  smile  the  sweetest  she  had  ever  seen.  She 
murmured  — 

"  You  are  awfully  kind.     I  promise." 

"  Good,"  he  exclaimed  heartily,  "  you  are  a  first-rate 
sort ;  however  it  turns  out,  you  are  plucky." 


270  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

The  most  delicious  odours  of  moist  earth,  blessed  with 
the  day's  unexpected  warmth,  rose  on  the  winter  air. 
Their  footfalls  were  lost  in  the  leaves.  Far  down  at  the 
end  of  the  alley  they  could  see  other  strollers,  but  where 
they  stood  they  were  quite  alone.  The  excitement  of  the 
unusual  outing,  the  pleasure  of  companionship,  brought 
the  colour  to  their  cheeks,  a  light  to  their  eyes.  The 
girl's  helplessness,  the  human  struggle  so  like  to  his  own, 
her  admiration  and  her  frankness,  appealed  to  him  greatly. 
His  late  agitation,  useless,  hopeless,  perilous  moreover, 
and  which  he  felt  he  must  overcome  because  it  could 
have  neither  issue  nor  satisfaction,  made  Fairfax  turn 
here  for  satisfaction  and  repose.  They  wandered  slowly 
down  the  alley,  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  he  said, 
looking  down  at  her  — 

"  Meanwhile,  you  belong  to  me." 

The  words  passed  his  lips  before  he  realized  what  they 
meant,  or  their  importance.  He  did  so  as  soon  as  he 
spoke.  He  felt  her  start.  She  withdrew  the  hand  from 
his  arm.  He  stopped  and  said  — 

"  Did  I  frighten  you  ?  "     He  took  her  little  hand. 

"  A  little,"  Nora  Scarlet  said.  Her  eyes  were  round 
and  wide. 

Antony  held  her  hand,  looking  at  her,  trying  to  see  a 
deeper  beauty  in  her  face  than  was  there,  greater  depths 
in  her  eyes  than  they  could  contain,  more  of  the  woman  to 
fill  his  need  and  his  loneliness.  He  realized  how  great 
that  loneliness  was  and  how  demanding.  She  seemed  like 
a  child  or  a  bird  that  he  had  caught  ruthlessly. 

"  Didn't  you  drink  just  now  to  our  friendship  ?  " 

She  nodded,  bit  her  lips,  smiled,  and  her  humour 
returned. 

"  Yes,  I  drank  to  our  friendship." 

"Well,"  he  said,  and  hesitated,  "well  .  .  ."  He  drew 
her  a  little  toward  him;  she  resisted  faintly,  and  Fairfax 
stopped  and  quickly  kissed  her,  a  feeling  of  shame  in  his 
soul.  He  kissed  her  again,  murmured  something  to  her, 
and  she  kissed  him.  Then  she  pushed  him  gently  away, 
her  face  crimson,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  No,  no,"  she  murmured,  "  you  shouldn't  have  done 
it.  It  is  too  awful.  It's  unworthy.  Ami,"  she  gasped, 
"do  you  know  you  are  the  first  man  I  ever  let  do  that? 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  271 

Do  you  believe  me  ? "  She  was  clinging  to  his  hands, 
half  laughing,  half  sobbing,  and  the  kiss  was  sweet,  sweet, 
and  the  moment  was  sweet.  To  one  of  them  it  was 
eternal,  and  could  never  come  in  all  her  lifetime  like  that 
again. 

He  stifled  his  self-reproach.  He  would  have  taken  her 
in  his  arms  again,  but  she  ran  from  him,  swiftly,  like  the 
bird  set  free. 

"Wait,"  he  called;  "Nora  Scarlet,  I  promise."  He 
hurried  to  her.  "You  forget  I  am  a  lame  jackdaw." 

Then  she  stood  still.  They  were  walking  together,  his 
arm  around  her  waist,  when  they  came  out  at  the  alley's 
end.  Standing  by  a  marble  bust  on  its  pedestal,  quite 
alone  and  meditative,  as  if  she  had  just  looked  up,  seen 
something  and  nevertheless  decided  to  wait,  Fairfax  saw 
Mrs.  Faversham. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

His  first  sensation,  as  he  saw  her,  was  as  if  a  sudden 
light  had  broken  upon  a  soul's  darkness  which  until  this 
moment  had  blinded  him,  oppressed  him,  condemned  him ; 
then  there  came  a  great  revulsion  against  himself.  Mrs. 
Faversham  was  very  pale,  as  white  as  the  bust  by  whose 
side  she  stood.  She  held  out  her  hand,  in  its  delicate 
glove,  and  tried  to  greet  him  naturally. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Eainsf ord  ?  " 

He  was  conscious  of  how  kind  she  was,  how  womanly. 
He  had  refused  her  invitation  and  flaunted  in  her  sight 
a  vulgar  pastoral.  His  cheeks  were  hot,  his  lips  hardly 
formed  a  greeting.  This  was  the  work  he  had  offered 
as  an  excuse  to  her  when  he  had  said  that  he  could  not 
go  to  Versailles.  "  Then  what  is  it  to  her  ?  "  he  thought ; 
"  she  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  Cedersholm.  What  am 
I  or  my  vulgarities  to  her  ?  "  There  was  a  fresh  revulsion. 

"Will  you  let  me  present  Miss  Scarlet,"  he  said 
quietly,  "  Mrs.  Faversham  ?  " 

Mrs.  Faversham,  who  had  recovered  herself,  gave  her 
hand  into  the  woollen  glove  of  Nora  Scarlet,  and,  looking 
at  the  young  girl,  said  that  perhaps  they  had  been 
sketching. 

"  Not  in  January,"  replied  Nora  with  perfect  self- 
possession.  From  the  crown  of  Mrs.  Faversham's  fur 
hat  to  the  lady's  shoes,  the  girl's  honest  eyes  had  taken 
in  her  elegance  and  her  grace.  "  We  have  been  walking  a 
bit  after  Paris." 

Fairfax  felt  as  though  he  had  been  separated  from  this 
lady  for  a  long  time,  as  though  he  had  just  come  back, 
after  a  voyage  whose  details  were  tiresome.  She  seemed 
too  divine  to  him  and  at  once  cruelly  near  and  cruelly 
removed,  in  her  dark  dress,  her  small  walking  hat  with  a 

272 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  273 

spray  of  mistletoe  shining  against  the  fur,  her  faultless 
shoes,  her  face  so  sweet  and  high-bred  under  her  veil,  her 
aloofness  from  everything  with  which  he  came  in  contact, 
her  freedom  from  care  and  struggle,  from  temptation, 
from  the  sordidness  of  which  he  had  long  been  a  part. 
He  suffered  horribly;  short  as  the  moment  was,  the 
acuteness  of  its  sensations  comprised  for  him  a  miserable 
eternity. 

"  I  have  my  carriage  here,  Mr.  Rainsford.  Will  you 
not  let  me  drive  you  both  back  to  Paris  ?  " 

He  wanted  nothing  but  to  go  with  her  then,  any  way, 
the  farther  the  better,  and  for  ever.  It  came  upon  him 
suddenly,  and  he  knew  it.  He  refused,  of  course,  angry 
to  be  obliged  to  do  so,  angrier  still  at  what  he  was  sure 
she  would  think  was  the  reason  for  his  doing  so.  She 
bade  them  both  good-bye,  now  thoroughly  mistress  of 
herself,  and  reminded  him  that  she  would  expect  him  the 
next  day  at  three.  She  asked  Miss  Scarlet  many  questions 
about  her  work  and  the  schools,  as  they  walked  along  a 
little  together,  before  Mrs.  Faversham  took  the  path  that 
led  to  the  gate  where  her  carriage  waited. 

When  they  were  together  again  alone,  Fairfax  and 
his  companion,  in  the  tram,  he  felt  as  though  he  had  cut 
himself  off  once  again,  by  his  folly,  from  everything 
desirable  in  the  world.  The  night  was  cold.  He  did  not 
realize  how  silent  he  was  or  how  silent  she  was.  When 
they  had  nearly  reached  Paris,  Miss  Scarlet  said  — 

"  Is  it  her  portrait  you  thought  I  might  get  to  paint  ?  " 

The  question  startled  him,  the  voice  as  well.  It  was 
like  being  spoken  to  suddenly  by  a  perfect  stranger. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  she  is  wonderfully  generous 
and  open-hearted.  I  am  sure  that  she  would  give  you 
an  order." 

"Please  don't  bother/'  said  the  girl  proudly.  "I 
would  not  take  the  order." 

Her  tone  was  so  curt  and  short  that  it  brought  Fairfax 
back  to  realities. 

"Why,  pray,  don't  you  find  her  paintable?"  he 
asked. 

The  girl's  voice  was  contemptuous.  "  I  don't  know. 
I  didn't  look  at  her  with  that  idea." 


274  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Fairfax  had  nothing  left  him  but  his  self-reproach,  his 
humiliation,  his  sense  of  degradation,  though  God  knows 
the  outing  was  innocent  enough!  The  Thing  had  hap- 
pened. The  Event  had  transpired.  The  veil  had  been 
drawn  away  from  his  heart  when  he  saw  her  there  in  the 
park  and  spoke  to  her.  The  idea  that  she  must  think 
him  light  and  vulgar-minded,  an  ordinary  Bohemian, 
amusing  himself  as  is  the  fashion  in  the  Latin  Quarter, 
was  unbearable  to  him.  He  would  have  given  his  right 
hand  to  have  been  alone  in  the  park  and  to  have  met  her 
alone.  Under  the  spell  of  his  suffering,  he  said  cruelly 
to  the  girl  whom  he  had  so  wantonly  captured  — 

"  If  you  won't  let  me  help  you  in  my  way,  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  help  you  at  all." 

And  she  returned,  controlling  her  voice :  "  No,  I  am 
afraid  you  cannot  help  me." 

He  was  unconscious  of  her  until  they  reached  the 
centre  of  Paris  and  he  found  himself  in  the  street  by  her 
side,  and  they  were  crossing  the  Pond  des  Arts  on  foot. 
The  lamps  were  lit.  The  tumult  and  stir  of  the  city  was 
around  them,  the  odour  of  fires  and  the  perfume  of  the 
city  pungent  to  their  nostrils.  They  walked  along  silently, 
and  Fairfax  asked  her  suddenly  — 

"  Where  shall  I  take  you  ?  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  and 
realized  as  he  spoke  how  little  he  knew  of  her,  how  unknown 
they  were  to  each  other,  and  yet  what  a  factor  she  had 
been  in  his  emotional  life.  He  had  held  her  in  his  armi 
and  kissed  her  not  three  hours  ago. 

She  put  her  hand  out  to  him.  "  We  will  say  good-bye 
here,"  she  said  evenly.  "  I  can  go  home  alone." 

"  Oh  no,"  he  objected,  but  he  saw  by  her  face  that 
in  her,  too,  a  revulsion  had  taken  place,  perhaps  stronger 
than  his  own.  He  was  ashamed  and  annoyed.  He  put 
out  his  hand  and  hers  just  touched  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  for  the  excursion,  and  would 
you  please  give  me  my  portfolio  ?  " 

He  handed  it  to  her.  Then  quite  impulsively :  "  I 
don't  want  to -part  from  you  like  this.  Why  should  I? 
Let  me  take  you  home,  won't  you  ?  " 

He  wanted  to  say,  "  Forgive  me,"  but  she  had 
possessed  herself  of  her  little  sketches,  the  poor,  inadequate 
work  of  fruitless  months.  She  turned  and  was  gone 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  275 

almost  running  up  the  quays,  as  she  had  run  before  him 
down  the  alley  of  Versailles.  He  saw  her  go  with  great 
relief,  and,  when  the  little  brown  figure  was  lost  in  the 
Paris  multitude,  he  turned  and  limped  home  to  the 
studio  in  the  Quais. 


HE  did  not  go  to  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  at  the 
appointed  hour,  and  was  so  ungracious  as  not  to  send  her 
any  word.  He  took  the  time  for  his  own  work,  and  from 
thence  on  devoted  himself  to  finishing  the  portrait  of  his 
mother.  Meanwhile,  Dearborn,  enveloped  in  smoke, 
dug  into  the  mine  of  his  imagination  and  brought  up 
treasures  and  nearly  completed  his  play.  He  recited  from 
it  copiously,  read  it  aloud,  wept  at  certain  scenes  which 
he  assured  Tony  would  never  be  as  sad  to  any  spectator 
as  they  were  to  him. 

"  I  wrote  them  on  an  empty  stomach,"  he  said. 

Fairfax,  meanwhile,  finished  his  statuette  and  decided 
to  send  it  to  an  exhibition  of  sculpture  to  be  opened  in 
the  Rue  de  Sevres.  He  had  bitterly  renounced  his  worldly 
life,  and  was  shortly  obliged  to  pawn  his  dress  suit,  and, 
indeed,  anything  else  that  the  young  men  could  gather 
together  went  to  the  Mont  de  Piete,  and  once  more  the 
comrades  were  nearly  destitute  and  were  really  clad  and 
fed  by  their  visions  and  their  dreams. 

"You  see,"  he  said  one  day,  shortly,  to  Dearborn, 
when  the  silence  between  the  quays  and  the  Avenue  du 
Bois  de  Boulogne  had  grown  intolerable  to  him,  "you 
see  how  indifferent  she  is.  She  doesn't  know  what  has 
become  of  me.  For  all  she  knows  I  may  be  drowned  in 
the  Seine." 

"Or  imprisoned  for  debt,"  said  Dearborn,  cheerfully, 
"  that's  more  likely.  The  tailor  doesn't  believe  you  have 
gone  to  London,  Fairfax.  Try  a  more  congenial  place, 
Tony.  Let  it  be  Monte  Carlo  next  time  —  every  one  goes 
there  sooner  or  later." 

When  he  came  back  from  Versailles  he  told  Dearborn 
nothing  about  his  escapade  in  detail,  simply  mentioning 

276 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  277 

the  fact  that  he  had  taken  out  a  little  girl  to  spend  the 
day  in  the  woods  and  that  she  had  bored  him  in  the  end, 
and  that  he  had  had  the  misfortune  to  meet  Mrs.  Faver- 
sham  unexpectedly. 

Dearborn  was  one  of  those  subtle  spirits  who  do  not 
need  to  be  told  everything.  He  rated  Antony  for 
playing  what  he  called  an  ungallant  part  to  the  little 
Bohemian. 

"You  say  her  hair  was  like  chrysanthemums  and  that 
she  had  violet  eyes?  Why,  she  is  a  priceless  treasure, 
Tony !  How  could  you  desert  her  ?  " 

And  several  times  Dearborn  tried  to  extract  some- 
thing more  about  the  deserted  little  girl  from  his  friend, 
but  it  was  in  vain. 

"£T  am  sorry,"  Dearborn  said.  "We  need  women, 
Tony  —  we  need  to  see  the  flutter  of  their  dresses,  to 
watch  them  come  and  go  in  this  little  room.  By  Jove, 
I  often  want  to  open  the  door  and  invite  up  the  concierge, 
the  concierge's  wife,  his  aunt  *  and  children  three,'  or 
any,  or  all  of  Paris  who  would  come  and  infuse  new  life 
into  us.  Anything  that  is  real  flesh  and  blood,  to  chase 
for  a  moment  visions  and  dreams  away  and  let  us  touch 
real  hands." 

"  You  don't  go  out  enough,  old  man." 

"  And  you  went  out  too  much,  Fairfax.  It's  not  going 
out  —  I  want  some  one  to  come  in.  I  want  to  see  the 
studio  peopled.  You  have  grown  so  morose  and  I  have 
become  such  a  navvy  that  our  points  of  view  will  be  false 
the  first  thing  we  know." 

The  snow  had  been  falling  lightly.  There  was  a  little 
fringe  of  it  along  the  sill,  and  toward  sunset  it  had  turned 
cold,  and  under  the  winter  fog  the  sun  hung  like  an 
orange  ball  behind  a  veil.  The  Seine  flowed  tawny  and 
yellow  under  their  eyes,  as  they  stood  together  talking 
in  the  window. 

Fairfax  was  in  his  painting  clothes,  the  playwright  in 
his  beloved  dressing-gown  that  Fairfax  had  not  the  heart 
to  pawn  for  coffee  and  coal.  There  was  a  sound  of  foot- 
steps on  the  stairs  without. 

"  It's  the  fellows  coming  to  take  my  statuette,"  said 
Fairfax. 

"It's  the  tailor,  the  bootmaker  and  the  shirtmaker," 


278  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

said  Dearborn.  "Go  behind  the  screen,  Tony  —  run  to 
Monte  Carlo." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and  a  cheerful  voice 
called  — 

"  Mr.  Rainsford,  c'est  moi." 

"  It  is  Potowski.  I  will  have  to  let  him  in,  Bob.  Here's 
all  Paris  for  you.  You  wanted  it." 

He  opened  the  door  for  Count  Potowski. 

The  Polish  singer  came  quickly  in,  his  silk  hat  and  his 
cane  in  his  hand.  He  looked  around  brightly. 

"  You  don't  hide  from  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  fatal 
grasp  when  I  take  hold.  You  never  call  on  me,  Monsieur 
—  so  I  call  on  you.  Guerrea !  —  which  means  in  Polish 
what  'altro'  means  in  Italian,  'Doch'  in  German, 
'  Voila '  in  French,  and  in  unenthusiastic  English,  nothing 
at  all." 

Fairfax  presented  the  Count  to  Dearborn,  who  beamed 
on  him,  amused,  and  Potowski  glanced  at  the  cold, 
cheerless  Bohemia.  It  was  meagre.  It  was  cold.  Priva- 
tion was  apparent.  The  place  was  not  without  a  charm, 
and  it  had  distinction.  There  were  the  evidences  of 
intense  work,  of  devotion  to  the  ideal.  There  were  the 
evidences  of  good  taste  and  good  breeding.  The  few 
bits  of  furniture  were  old  and  had  been  bought  for  a  song, 
but  selected  with  judgment.  Fairfax's  statuette  waited 
on  its  pedestal  to  be  carried  away  —  in  the  winter  light, 
softened  and  subdued  by  mist,  Mrs.  Fairfax  read  in  her 
chair.  Dearborn's  table,  strewn  with  his  papers  and 
books,  told  of  hours  spent  at  a  beloved  labour.  There 
was  nothing  material  to  attract  —  no  studio  properties  or 
decorations  to  speak  of.  Two  long  divans  were  placed 
against  a  wall  of  agreeable  colour.  There  was  nothing 
but  the  spirit  of  art  and  work,  and  the  spirit  of  youth  as 
well,  but  Potowski  was  delighted.  He  pointed  to  the 
statuette. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  is  the  lovely  lady  with  whom  you 
have  been  shut  up  all  these  days.  It  is  charming, 
Monsieur." 

"  It  is  a  study  of  my  mother  as  I  remember  her." 

"  I  salute  it,"  said  Potowski,  making  a  little  inclination. 
"I  salute  you.  It  is  beautiful."  He  put  his  hand  on 
Fairfax's  arm.  "You  do  my  wife.  You  do  the 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  279 

Contessa,"  said  Potowski,  "the  same.  I  adore  it.  It 
looks  my  wife.  It  might  be  her,  Monsieur.  But  all 
beauty  is  alike,  is  not  it  ?  One  lovely  woman  is  all  women. 
Are  you  not  of  my  opinion?" 

He  swam  toward  Dearborn  who  was  fascinated  by 
Potowski's  overcoat  lined  with  fur,  and  with  the  huge 
fur  collar,  with  his  patent  shoes  with  their  white  tops, 
with  his  bright  waistcoat,  his  single  eyeglass,  his  shining 
silk  hat  and,  above  all,  by  the  gay  foreign  face,  its  waxed 
moustache  and  its  sparkling  dark  eyes. 

Dearborn  wrapped  his  dressing-gown  modestly  around 
him  to  conceal  his  shirtless,  collarless  condition.  Running 
his  hands  through  dishevelled  red  hair,  he  responded  — 

"  No,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  guess  your  feminine 
psychology  is  at  fault  there,  Count." 

"  Rreally  not,"  murmured  the  Count,  looking  at  him 
eagerly. 

"  Mr.  Dearborn  is  a  playwright,"  said  Antony.  "  He 
is  a  great  student  of  character." 

Potowski  waved  his  hand  in  its  light  glove.  "  You 
write  plays,  Monsieur?  You  shall  write  me  a  libretto. 
I  have  been  looking  for  ever  for  some  one  to  write  the 
words  for  a  hopera  I  am  making." 

Dearborn  nodded.  "  Far  from  being  all  alike,  I  don't 
think  that  there  have  been  two  women  alike  since 
Eve." 

"Rreally!" 

Potowski  looked  at  the  red-headed  man  as  if  he  won- 
dered whether  he  had  met  and  known  all  women. 

"  You  find  it  so,  Monsieur  ?  Now  I  have  been 
married  three  times.  Every  one  of  them  were  loveb 
women.  I  find  them  all  the  same." 

"  You  must  have  a  very  adaptable,  assimilating  and 
modifying  nature,"  said  Dearborn,  smiling. 

"Modifying?  What  is  that?"  asked  the  Pole 
sweetly. 

Neither  of  the  young  men  made  excuses  for  the  icy 
cold  room.  They  were  too  proud.  They  had  nothing 
to  offer  Potowski,  not  even  a  cigarette,  but  the  Pole 
forced  his  cigar-case  upon  them,  telling  them  that  he 
made  his  cigarettes  with  a  machine  by  the  thousand. 

"  My  wife,  Contessa  Potowski,  makes  them,  I  mean, 


280  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

I  do  myself  the  pleasure  to  send  you  a  box.  They're 
contraband.  You  will  be  arrested  if  the  police  knows  so." 

"  That/'  said  Dearborn,  "  would  really  disappoint  the 
tailor.  I  think  he  would  like  to  get  in  his  own  score  first. 
But  I  would  rather  go  to  prison  as  a  contrabander  than  as 
a  debtor." 

They  sat  on  the  sofa  together  and  smoked,  their 
breath  white  in  the  cold  room.  But  the  amiable  Potowski 
beamed  on  them,  and  Antony  saw  Dearborn's  delight 
at  the  outside  element.  And  Dearborn  sketched  his 
scenario,  the  colour  hot  in  his  thin  cheeks,  and  Potowski, 
rubbing  his  hands  to  warm  them,,  hummed  airs  from  his 
own  opera  in  a  heavenly  voice,  and  the  voice  and  the 
enthusiasm  magnetized  poor  Dearborn,  carried  out  of 
his  rut,  and  before  he  knew  it  he  had  promised  to  write  a 
libretto  for  "  Fiametta." 

Whilst  they  talked  the  porters  came  and  took  away 
the  statuette  of  Mrs.  Fairfax,  and  Potowski  said  — 

"  It  was  like  seeing  they  carry  away  my  wife."  And, 
when  they  had  gone,  Antony  lighted  the  candles  and 
Potowski  rose  and  cried,  as  though  the  idea  had  just  come 
to  him :  "  Guerrea !  My  friends,  I  am  alone  to-night. 
My  wife  has  gone  to  sing  in  Brussels.  I  implore  you  to 
come  out  to  dinner  with  me  —  I  know  not  where."  He 
glanced  at  the  sculptor  and  playwright,  as  they  stood  in 
the  candle  light.  He  had  only  seen  Fairfax  a  well-dressed 
visitor  at  Mrs.  Faversham's  entertainments.  On  him 
now  a  different  light  fell.  In  his  working  clothes,  there 
was  nothing  poverty-stricken  about  him,  but  the  marks 
of  need  were  unmistakably  in  the  environment.  He 
spoke  to  Dearborn,  but  he  looked  at  Fairfax.  "  I  have 
grown  very  fond  of  him.  I  love  to  speak  my  thoughts  at 
him.  We  don't  always  agree,  but  we  are  always  good  for 
each  other.  I  have  not  seen  him  for  some  time.  I  thought 
he  go  away." 

Dearborn  smiled.  "  He  was  just  going  to  Monte 
Carlo,"  he  murmured. 

Potowski,  who  did  not  hear,  went  on:  "We  will  go 
and  eat  in  some  restaurant  on  this  side  of  the  river.  I  am 
tired  of  the  Cafe  de  Paris.  We  will  see  a  play  afterwards. 
There  is  f  La  Dame  aux  Camelias '  with  the  divine  Sarah. 
We  laugh  at  dinner  and  we  shall  go  and  sob  at  La  Dame 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  281 

aux  Camelias.  I  like  a  happy  weeping  now  and  then/' 
He  swam  toward  them  affably  and  appealingly.  "  I 
don't  dress.  I  go  as  I  am." 

Dearborn  grasped  one  of  the  yellow-gloved  hands  and 
shook  it. 

"  Hang  it  all !  I'm  going,  Tony.  There  are  two  pair 
of  boots,  anyhow.  I  haven't  been  to  a  play,"  he  laughed 
excitedly,  "  since  I  was  a  child.  Hustle,  Tony,  we  will 
toss  up  for  the  best  suit  of  clothes." 

The  drama  of  Dumas  gave  Antony  a  beautiful  escape 
from  reality.  La  Dame  aux  Camelias  disenchanted  him 
from  his  own  problems  for  the  time.  In  the  Count's  box 
he  sat  in  the  background  and  fed  his  eyes  and  his  ears 
with -the  romantic  and  ardent  art  of  the  Second  Empire. 
He  found  the  piece  great,  mobile,  and  palpitating,  and  he 
was  not  ashamed.  The  divine  Sarah  and  Marguerite 
Gautier  died  before  his  eyes,  and  out  of  the  ashes  woman- 
hood arose  and  called  to  him,  as  the  Venus  de  Milo  had 
called  to  him  down  the  long  gallery,  and  distractions  he 
had  known  seemed  soulless  and  unreal  shapes.  He 
worshipped  Dumas  in  his  creation. 

"  Eainsf  ord/'  whispered  Potowski,  laying  his  hand  on 
Antony's  knee,  "what  do  you  t'ink,  my  friend?"  The 
tears  were  raining  down  his  mobile  face;  he  sighed. 
"  Arrt"  he  said  in  his  mellow  whisper,  "  is  only  the 
expression  of  the  feeling,  the  beautiful  expression  of  the 
feeling.  That  is  the  meaning  of  all  arrt" 

The  big  red  curtain  fell  slowly  and  the  three  men,  poet, 
singer  and  sculptor,  kept  their  seats  as  though  still  under 
the  spell  of  Dumas  and  unable  to  break  it. 

"  Tony,"  said  Dearborn,  as  they  went  out  together,  "  I 
am  going  to  burn  up  all  four  acts." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  middle  of  January  arrived,  and  he  thought  Cedersholm 
would  have  come  by  that  time  and  supposed  that  they 
would  be  off  for  Rome. 

The  study  of  his  mother  was  accepted  by  the  jury  for 
the  exhibition  in  the  Rue  de  Sevres,  and  Fairfax  went 
on  the  opening  day,  saw  his  name  in  the  catalogue,  and 
his  study  on  the  red  pedestal  made  a  dark  mellow  note 
amongst  the  marbles.  He  stood  with  the  crowd  and 
listened  with  beating  heart  to  the  comments  of  the  public. 
He  watched  the  long-haired  Bohemians  and  the  worldly 
people,  the  Philistine  and  the  elite  as  they  surged,  a  little 
sea  of  criticism,  approval,  praise  and  blame,  through  the 
rooms. 

"  Pas  mal,  c,a."  "  Here  is  a  study  that  is  worth 
looking  at."  "  By  whom  is  this  ?  " 

And  each  time  that  he  heard  his  name  read  aloud  — 
Thomas  Rainsford  —  he  was  jealous  of  it  for  Antony. 
It  seemed  a  sacrilege,  a  treachery.  He  wandered  about, 
looking  at  the  other  exhibits,  but  could  not  keep  away 
from  his  own,  and  came  back  timidly,  happily,  to  stand 
by  the  figure  of  his  mother  in  her  chair.  There  was  much 
peace  in  the  little  work  of  art,  much  repose.  He  seemed 
to  see  himself  again  a  boy,  as  he  had  been  that  day  when 
she  asked  for  the  cherries  and  he  had  run  off  to  climb  for 
them  —  and  had  gone  limping  ever  since.  She  had  sat 
languidly  with  her  book  that  day,  as  she  sat  now,  im- 
mortalized by  her  son  in  clay. 

Some  one  came  up  and  touched  his  arm.  "  Bonjour, 
Rainsford."  It  was  Barye,  his  chief.  He  had  been  look- 
ing at  the  group  behind  the  sculptor.  He  said  briefly: 
"  Je  vous  felicite,  monsieur."  He  smiled  on  his  iourney- 

282 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  283 

man  from  under  shaggy  brows.     "They  will  talk  about 
you  in  the  Figaro.     C'est  exquis." 

Fairfax  thanked  him  and  watched  Barye's  face  as  the 
master  scrutinized  and  went  around  the  little  figure.  He 
put  out  his  hand  to  Fairfax. 

"  Come  and  see  me  to-morrow.     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Fairfax  answered  that  he  would  be  sure  to  come, 
just  as  though  he  were  not  modelling  at  the  studio  for 
ten  francs  a  day.  He  had  been  careful  all  along  not  to 
repeat  his  error  of  years  before.  He  had  avoided  person- 
alities with  his  master,  as  he  toiled  like  a  common  day- 
labourer,  content  to  make  his  living  and  to  display  no 
originality ;  but  now  he  felt  a  sense  of  fellowship  with  the 
great  Frenchman  and  walked  along  by  Barye's  side  to  the 
door^roud  to  be  so  distinguished.  He  glanced  over  the 
crowd  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Her,  but  instead,  walking 
through  the  rooms,  his  eyeglass  in  his  eye,  the  little  red 
badge  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  in  his  coat,  he  saw 
Cedersholm. 

The  following  day,  when  he  went  to  the  exhibition,  the 
man  at  the  door  handed  a  catalogue  to  Fairfax  and  pointed 
to  No.  102,  against  which  was  the  word  "  Sold."  His 
price  had  been  unpretentious. 

"  Moreover,"  said  the  man,  "  No.  102  will  certainly  have 
a  medal." 

Fairfax,  his  hands  in  his  empty  pockets,  was  less 
impressed  by  that  prognostication  than  by  the  fact  that 
there  was  money  for  him  somewhere.  The  man  opened 
the  desk  and  handed  Fairfax  an  envelope  with  five 
hundred  francs  in  it. 

"  Who  was  the  purchaser  ? "  Fairfax  looked  at  the 
receipt  he  was  given  to  sign  and  read :  "  Sold  to  Mr. 
Cedersholm." 

"  Mais  non,"  he  exclaimed  shortly,  "  ga,  non !  " 

He  was  assured,  however,  that  it  was  the  American 
sculptor  and  no  other.  On  his  way  home  he  reflected, 
"  She  sent  him  to  purchase  it."  And  the  five  hundred 
francs  bill  burned  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  called  himself 
a  fool  and  asked  what  possible  interest  she  could  still 
have  in  Thomas  Rainsford,  whose  news  she  had  not  taken 
in  four  weeks.  And  also,  he  reflected,  that  so  far  as 
Cedersholm  was  concerned,  Thomas  Rainsford  had  nothing 


284  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

to  do  with  Antony  Fairfax.  "  He  merely  admired  my 
work,"  he  reflected  bitterly.  "  He  has  seemed  always 
singularly  to  admire  it." 

He  paid  some  pressing  debts,  got  his  clothes  out  of 
pawn,  left  Dearborn  what  he  wanted,  and  was  relieved 
when  the  last  sou  of  the  money  was  gone. 

"  I  wonder,  Bob,"  he  said  to  Dearborn,  "  when  I  shall 
ever  have  any  '  serious  money.' ''  And  with  sudden  tender- 
ness he  thought  of  Bella. 

Dearborn,  who  had  also  recovered  a  partially  decent 
suit  of  clothes,  displayed  his  trousers  and  said  — 

"  I  think  some  chap  has  been  wearing  my  clothes  and 
stretched  them."  They  hung  loose  on  him. 

Fairfax  laughed.  "  You  have  only  shrunk,  Bob, 
that's  all.  You  need  feeding  up." 

The  studio  had  undergone  a  slight  transformation, 
which  the  young  men  had  been  forced  to  accede  to.  A 
grand  piano  covered  with  a  bright  bit  of  brocade  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  studio,  a  huge  armchair,  with  a 
revolving  smoking-table,  by  its  side.  The  chair  was  for 
Dearborn  to  loll  in  and  dream  in  whilst  Potowski  played 
and  sang  at  the  piano.  Dearborn  was  thus  supposed  to 
work  the  libretto  for  "  Fiametta." 

Potowski,  who  came  in  at  all  hours,  charmed  the 
very  walls  with  his  voice,  sang  and  improvised;  Fairfax 
worked  on  the  study  he  was  making  for  Barye,  and 
Dearborn,  in  the  big  chair,  swathed  in  his  wrapper,  made 
notes,  or  more  often  fell  serenely  to  sleep,  for  he  worked 
all  night  on  his  own  beloved  drama,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Potowski  he  would  have  slept  nearly  all  day.  The 
Pole,  at  present,  had  gone  to  Belgium  to  fetch  his  wife, 
who  had  been  away  for  several  weeks. 

When  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door  on  this  afternoon, 
the  young  men,  used  to  unexpected  visitors,  cried  out  — 

"  Come  in  —  entrez  done !  " 

But  there  was  the  murmur  of  a  woman's  voice  without, 
and  Fairfax,  his  sculpting  tools  in  his  hands,  opened  the 
door.  It  was  Mrs.  Faversham. 

He  stood  for  a  dazed  second  unable  even  to  welcome 
her.  Dearborn  sprang  up  in  embarrassment  and  amuse- 
ment. Mrs.  Faversham  herself  was  not  embarrassed. 

"  Is  not  Potowski  here  ?  "  shaking  hands  with  Antony. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  285 

"  I  had  expected  to  meet  him.  Didn't  he  tell  you  that 
I  was  coming  ?  I  understood  that  you  expected  me/' 

Fairfax  shut  the  door  behind  her.  "  You  are  more 
than  welcome.  This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Dearborn.  You 
may  have  heard  Potowski  speak  of  him." 

She  shook  hands  with  the  red-haired  playwright, 
whom  she  captivated  at  once  by  her  cordiality  and  her 
sweet  smile.  Of  course  she  had  heard  of  him  and  the 
libretto.  Potowski  had  given  her  to  understand  that  she 
might  hear  the  overture  of  "  Fiametta." 

The  young  men  exchanged  glances  and  neither  of 
them  told  her  that  Potowski  was  in  Belgium.  Dearborn 
rolled  the  chair  toward  her  and  waved  to  it  gracefully. 

"  This  is  the  chair  of  the  muses,  Mrs.  Faversham,  and 
not  one  of  them  has  been  good  enough  to  sit  in  it  before 
now." 

She  laughed  and  sat  down,  and  Fairfax  looked  at  her 
with  joy. 

"We  must  give  Mrs.  Faversham  some  tea,"  said 
Dearborn,  "  and  if  you  will  excuse  me  while  we  wait  for 
Potowski,  I  will  pop  out  and  get  some  milk  and  you  boil 
the  tea-kettle." 

He  took  his  hat  and  cape  and  ran  out,  leaving  them 
alone. 

Mrs.  Faversham  looked  at  the  sculptor  in  his  velveteen 
working  clothes,  the  background  of  his  workshop,  its 
disorder  and  its  poverty  around  him. 

"  How  nice  it  is  here,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  wonder  you 
are  a  hermit." 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "  don't  compliment  this  desola- 
tion." 

She  interrupted  him.  "  I  think  it  is  charming.  You 
feel  the  atmosphere  of  living  and  of  work.  You  seem 
to  see  things  here  that  are  not  visible  in  rooms  where 
nothing  is  accomplished." 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  "  Are  there  such  rooms  ? " 
he  asked.  "  I  don't  believe  it.  The  most  thrilling 
dramas  take  place,  don't  they,  in  the  most  commonplace 
settings  ?  " 

As  though  she  feared  that  Dearborn  would  come  back, 
she  said  quickly  — 

"  1  don't  know  why  you  should  have  been  so  unkind. 


286  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

I  have  heard  nothing  of  you  for  weeks,  do  you  know, 
excepting  through  Potowski.  It  wasn't  kind,  was  it  ?  " 

"I  was  rude  and  ungrateful,  but  I  could  not  do 
otherwise." 

She  bent  forward  to  him  as  he  sat  on  the  divan.  "  I 
wonder  why  ? "  she  asked.  "  Were  we  not  friends  ? 
Could  you  not  have  trusted  me?  Do  you  think  me  so 
narrow  and  conventional  —  so  stupid  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  he  smiled  a  little,  thinking 
of  Nora  Scarlet.  "  It  is  not  quite  what  you  think." 

He  was  angry  with  her,  with  the  facts  of  their  existence, 
with  her  great  fortune,  and  her  engagement  to  the  man  he 
despised  above  all  others,  his  own  incognito  and  the  fact 
that  she  had  sent  Cedersholm  to  buy  his  study,  and  that 
he  could  not  express  to  her,  without  insult,  his  feelings  or 
tell  her  frankly  who  he  was. 

"  You  were  not  kind,  Mr.  Rainsf ord." 

He  reflected  that  she  thought  him  the  lover  of  a  Latin 
Quarter  student,  if  she  thought  at  all,  which  she  probably 
did  not.  Without  humility  he  confessed  — 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  very  rude  indeed."  He  wiped  his 
clay-covered  hands  slowly,  each  finger  separately,  his 
eyes  bent.  He  rose  abruptly.  "Would  you  care  to  look 
at  a  study  I  am  making  for  Barye  ? "  He  drew  off  the 
cloths  from  the  clay  he  was  engaged  in  modelling.  She 
only  glanced  at  the  group  and  he  asked  her,  almost  roughly : 
"Why  did  you  buy  by  proxy  my  little  study  in  the 
exhibition?  Why  did  you  ask  Cedersholm  to  do 
so?" 

Mrs.  Faversham  looked  at  him  in  frank  surprise. 
"Your  study  in  the  exhibition?  I  knew  nothing  of  it. 
I  did  not  know  you  had  exhibited.  I  have  been  ill  for  a 
fortnight,  and  have  not  seen  a  paper  or  heard  a  bit  of 
news." 

He  was  softened.  His  emotions  violently  contradicted 
themselves,  and  he  saw  now  that  she  had  grown  a  little 
thinner  and  looked  pale. 

"Have  you  been  ill?  What  a  boor  you  must  think 
me  never  to  have  returned !  " 

She  was  standing  close  to  the  pedestal  and  rested  her 
hand  on  the  support  near  his  wooden  tools.  She  wore 
a  beautiful  grey  dress,  such  a  one  as  only  certain  Parisian 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  287 

hands  can  create.  It  fitted  her  to  perfection,  displaying 
her  shape,  and,  where  the  fur  opened  at  the  neck,  amongst 
the  lace  he  saw  the  gleaming  and  flashing  of  a  jewel  whose 
value  would  have  made  a  man  rich.  Already  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  the  scent  she  used.  She  had 
been  in  grey  when  he  had  first  seen  her  on  the  day  of  the 
unveiling  of  the  monument.  Fairfax  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes,  as  though  to  brush  away  a  vision  which, 
like  a  mist,  was  still  between  them.  He  put  his  hand  down 
over  hers  on  the  pedestal. 

"  I  love  you/7  he  said  very  low.  "  That  is  the  matter. 
That  is  the  trouble.  I  love  you.  I  want  you  to  know  it. 
I  dare  love  you.  I  am  perfectly  penniless  and  I  am  glad 
of  if  I  want  to  owe  everything  to  my  art,  to  climb 
through  the  thorns  to  where  I  shall  some  day  reach. 
I  am  proud  of  my  poverty  and  of  my  emancipation  from 
everything  that  others  think  is  necessary  to  happiness. 
I  am  rude.  I  cannot  help  it.  I  shall  never  see  you  again. 
I  ought  not  to  speak  to  you  in  my  barren  room.  I  know 
that  you  are  not  free  and  that  you  are  going  to  be  married, 
but  you  must  hear  once  what  I  have  to  tell  you.  I  love 
you.  ...  I  love  you." 

She  was  as  motionless  as  the  grey  study.  He  might 
himself  have  made  and  carved  "  the  woman  in  her 
entirety,"  for  she  stood  motionless  before  him. 

"Tell  Cedersholm,"  he  said  bitterly,  "tell  him  that 
a  poor  sculptor,  a  struggler  who  lives  to  climb  beyond  him, 
who  will  some  day  climb  beyond  him,  loves  you." 

The  arrogance  and  pride  of  his  words  and  her  immo- 
bility affected  him  more  than  a  reproof  or  even  speech. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  was  neither  marble  nor 
clay,  but  a  woman  there. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  murmured  close  to  her  cheek,  "  that 
I  have  kissed  you  and  held  you." 

And  here  she  said :  "  Hush !  "  almost  inaudibly,  and 
released  herself.  She  was  trembling.  She  put  her  hands 
to  her  eyes.  "I  shall  tell  him  nothing.  He  is  nothing 
to  me.  I  sent  him  away  when  he  first  came,  a  fortnight 
ago.  I  shall  never  see  Cedersholm  again." 

"  What ! "  cried  Tony,  looking  at  her  in  rapture, 
"what,  you  are  free?"  At  his  heart  there  was  triumph, 
excitement,  wonder,  all  blending  with  the  bigger  emotion. 


288  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

He  heard  himself  ask  her  eagerly:  "Why,  why  did  you 
do  this?" 

There  were  tears  on  her  eyelids. 

His  face  flushing,  his  eyes  illumined,  he  looked  down 
on  her  and  lifted  her  face  to  him  in  both  his  hands. 

"Why?" 

"  I  think  you  know,"  she  murmured,  her  lips  trembling. 

He  gave  a  cry,  and  as  he  was  about  again  to  embrace 
her  they  heard  Dearborn's  step  upon  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Faversham  was  in  the  window  looking  out  upon 
Paris,  and  Fairfax  was  modelling  on  his  study  when  the 
playwright  came  in  with  a  can  of  milk,  some  madeleines 
and  a  pot  of  jam. 

After  she  had  gone  he  wanted  to  escape  and  be  alone, 
but  Dearborn  chatted,  pacing  the  studio,  whilst  Fairfax 
dressed  and  shaved,  praising  the  visitor. 

"  She's  a  great  lady,  Tony.  What  breeding  and 
race !  And  she's  not  what  the  books  call  '  indifferent '  to 
you." 

"  Go  to  the  devil,  Dearborn !  " 

Dearborn  went  to  work  instead,  not  to  lose  the 
inspiration  of  the  lovely  woman.  He  began  a  new  scene, 
and  dressed  his  character  in  dove  grey  with  silver  fox 
at  her  throat. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FAIRFAX,   at  the   Avenue   du   Bois   de   Boulogne,   found 
instead  of  the  entrance  he  had  expected,  a  note  for  him. 

"  I  "cannot  see  you  to-night.  Be  generous, —  under- 
stand me.  Mr.  Cedersholm  leaves  for  Eussia  to-morrow, 
he  has  asked  me  as  a  last  favour  to  let  him  see  me.  I  have 
done  him  so  much  wrong  that  I  cannot  refuse  him.  Come 
early  to-morrow  morning,  and  we  will  walk  in  the  Bois 
together.  I  am  yours, 

"MARY." 

He  read  the  letter  before  the  footman,  and  the  "yours, 
Mary "  made  his  heart  'bound  and  his  throat  contract. 
He  walked  toward  the  Champs  Elysees  slowly,  thinking. 
Cedersholm  sailed  to-morrow,  away  from  France.  He  was 
sent  away  beaten,  bruised,  conquered.  He  must  have 
loved  her.  No  man  could  help  it.  Was  this  the  beginning 
of  Fairfax's  triumph?  Well,  he  could  not  help  it  —  he 
was  glad.  Cedersholm  had  stolen  his  fire,  the  labour  of 
his  youth,  and  now  he  would  not  have  been  human  if 
there  had  not  been  a  thrill  through  him  that  the  conqueror 
knows.  He  could  spare  him  this  farewell  evening  with 
the  woman  who  signed  herself  "  I  am  yours,  Mary/' 

"  Vade  in  Pace,"  he  murmured. 

Then  the  vision  of  the  woman  rose  more  poignant  than 
anything  else,  and  he  saw  her  as  she  had  stood  under  his 
hands,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  the  fire  and  pallor  of 
passion  on  her  face. 

What  should  he  do  now?  Marry  her,  of  course.  He 
would  be  married,  then,  twice  at  thirty.  He  shook  his 
broad  shoulders  as  though  instinctively  he  chafed  under 
the  sudden  adjusting  to  them  of  a  burden.  He  limped 

289 


290  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PKIDE 

out  into  the  Champs  Elysees,  under  the  rows  of  light 
where  the  lamps  were  like  illumined  oranges.  The 
vehicles  twinkled  by  like  fire-flies  in  the  mist.  Before 
him  was  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie  and  back  of  it  stretched 
the  Champ  de  Mars  and  Napoleon's  tomb.  The  freedom 
of  the  night  and  the  hour  was  sweet  to  him;  and  he 
dreamed  as  he  limped  slowly  down  the  Avenue  under  the 
leafless  trees.  Probably  wisdom  would  tell  him  that,  if 
he  married  now,  it  would  be  the  end  of  his  career.  Love 
was  an  inspiration,  a  sharp  impelling  power  to  art,  but 
marriage,  a  home,  another  household,  another  hearth  and 
family,  beautiful  as  the  picture  was,  seemed  to  him,  even 
bright  and  keen  as  was  his  passion,  to  be  captivity.  And 
the  memory  of  Albany  came  back  to  him,  the  cold  winter 
months,  the  days  on  the  engine,  the  blizzards  against  the 
tenement  panes,  household  cares,  small  and  petty,  the 
buying  of  coal  and  food,  and  the  constant  duties  which 
no  man  can  shrink  from  and  be  a  man,  and  which  fret  the 
free  spirit  of  the  creator.  Moreover,  the  anguish  of  those 
days  returned,  biting  his  very  entrails  at  the  remembrance 
of  his  griefs,  his  remorse,  his  regrets.  Molly  by  the  study 
light,  patient  and  wifely,  rose  before  his  eyes.  There  was 
his  wife,  and  she  seemed  holy  and  stainless,  set  apart  for 
that  position  and  very  perfect.  .He  saw  her  lying  pale 
and  cold,  beautiful  as  marble,  with  the  little  swathed 
form  on  her  bosom,  which  had  given  and  never  nourished. 
He  saw  them  both  —  his  wife  and  child.  Can  a  man  begin 
over  again?  Can  he  create  anew,  perfectly  anew,  the 
same  vision?  He  saw  her  go  through  the  open  door, 
holding  it  wide  for  him.  So  she  should  hold  it  at  the  last. 
He  could  give  her  this.  He  had  defrauded  her  of  so  much. 
He  could  give  to  her  to  eternity  a  certain  faithfulness. 

He  was  exalted.  He  walked  freely,  with  his  head 
uplifted.  It  was  a  misty  evening  and  the  mists  blew 
about  him  as  he  limped  along  in  his  student's  cape,  his 
spirit  communing  with  his  ideals  and  with  his  dead. 
Before,  his  visions  took  form  and  floated  down  the  Avenue. 
Now  they  seemed  unearthly,  without  any  stain  of  human 
desire,  without  any  worldly  tarnish.  He  must  be  free. 
The  latitude  of  his  life  must  be  unbounded  by  any  human 
law,  otherwise  he  would  never  attain.  The  flying  forms 
were  sexless  and  his  eyes  pursued  them  like  a  worshipper. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  291 

They  were  angelic.     For  the  moment  he  had  emancipated 
himself  from  passion. 

He  reached  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  It  was  ten 
o'clock.  He  could  not  go  home  to  be  questioned  by 
Dearborn  —  indeed,  he  could  not  have  stood  a  companion. 
He  called  a  cab  and  told  the  man  to  drive  him  up  to  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  they  rolled  slowly  up  the  Avenue 
down  which  he  had  just  come.  But  in  what  position  did 
he  stand  toward  Mary  Faversham?  She  had  refused 
Cedersholm  because  she  loved  him  and  he  loved  her  — 
more  than  he  ever  could  love,  more  than  he  ever  had 
loved.  A  cab  passed  him  in  which  two  forms  were 
enlaced.  The  figures  of  two  lovers  blotted  in  the  dark- 
ness_.v  Along  the  alleys,  under  the  winter  trees,  every  now 
and  then  he  saw  other  lovers  walking  arm-in-arm,  even 
in  winter  warmed  by  the  eternal  fire.  He  touched  his 
pocket  where  her  note  lay  and  his  emotions  stirred  afresh. 

He  dreamed  of  her. 

He  had  been  tortured  day  by  day,  these  weeks,  by 
jealousy  of  Cedersholm,  and  this  helped  him  on  in  his 
sentimental  progress.  They  passed  the  street,  which  a 
moment  before  he  had  taken  from  her  house,  to  come  out 
upon  the  Champs  Elysees.  They  rolled  into  the  Bois, 
under  the  damp  darkness  and  the  night,  and  the  forest 
odours  came  to  him  through  the  window  of  the  cab. 
She  would  have  to  wait  until  he  was  rich  and  famous. 
As  far  as  her  fortune  was  concerned,  if  she  loved  him  she 
could  give  it  to  the  poor.  He  could  tell  her  how  to  use 
it.  She  should  never  spend  a  cent  of  it  on  herself.  He 
must  be  able  to  suffice  for  her  and  for  him.  Rich  or  poor, 
the  woman  who  married  him  would  have  to  take  him  as 
he  was.  On  the  lake  the  mists  blew  over  the  water.  They 
lay  white  as  spirits  among  the  trees.  Everything  about 
the  dark  and  silent  night  was  beautiful  to  him,  made 
beautiful  by  the  sacred  warfare  in  his  own  mind..  Above 
all  came  the  human  eagerness  to  see  her  again,  to  touch 
her  again,  to  tell  his  love,  to  hear  her  say  what  Dearborn's 
coming  had  prevented.  And  he  would  see  her  to-morrow 
morning.  It  was  profanity  to  walk  in  these  woods  with- 
out her. 

"Go    back,"   he   called    to   the    coachman,    "go    back 

quietly  to  the  Quais." 


292  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

He  hoped  that  he  should  be  able  to  sleep  and  that  the 
next  day  would  come  quickly.  He  became  ardent  and 
devoted  as  he  dreamed,  and  all  the  way  back  his  heart 
ached  for  her. 

When  he  entered  the  studio  and  called  Dearborn  he 
received  no  response.  There  was  a  note  from  the  play- 
wright on  the  table  —  he  would  not  be  back  until  the 
next  morning. 

Fairfax,  his  hand  under  his  pillow,  crushed  her  letter, 
and  the  words:  "I  am  yours,  Mary,"  flushed  his  palm 
and  his  cheek. 

He  had  been  awake  since  dawn,  fire  in  his  blood  and 
heart  animating  his  brain  and  stimulating  his  creative 
power.  In  the  early  light  he  had  seated  himself  to  make 
a  few  sketches,  drawing  little  exquisite  studies  of  her, 
and  the  face  on  the  paper  was  ideal,  irritatingly  so.  The 
chin  and  the  cheek  was  young  and  soft,  too  youthful  for 
Mrs.  Faversham.  It  suggested  Bella. 

When  he  went  to  see  her  that  afternoon,  for  the  first 
time  he  was  shown  upstairs.  Each  step  was  sacred  to 
him  as  he  mounted  to  the  part  of  the  house  in  which  she 
lived  her  intimate  life.  The  stairs  were  marble,  covered 
by  thick  rugs;  the  iron  balustrade  had  been  brought 
from  a  chateau  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution.  Along 
the  wall  at  his  side  hung  splendid  tapestries,  whose  colours 
would  have  delighted  him  at  another  time.  But  his  eyes 
now  were  blinded  to  material  things.  His  soul,  heart 
and  nature  were  aflame,  and  he  walked  on  air.  When 
he  was  shown  into  a  small  room,  Mrs.  Faversham's  own 
sitting-room,  his  agitation  was  so  great  that  he  seemed 
to  walk  through  a  mist. 

She  was  not  there.  The  day  was  fresh  and  the  wood 
fire  burning  across  the  andirons  called  to  him  with  a 
friendly  voice.  The  objects  by  which  she  surrounded 
herself  represented  a  fortune;  the  clock  before  him, 
which  marked  the  hour  in  which  he  first  came  to  see  his 
love,  had  belonged  to  Marie  Antoinette,  and  it  beamed 
on  the  lover  from  its  wise  old  clever  face, —  crystal  water 
fell  noiselessly,  as  the  minutes  passed,  from  a  little  golden 
mill  over  which  watched  two  Loves  like  millers.  There 
were  her  books  on  the  table,  bound  with  art  and  taste. 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  293 

There  were  her  writing  things  on  her  desk,  and  a  half- 
finished  letter  on  the  blotter.  There  was  her  "  chaise- 
longue  "  with  its  protective  pillows,  its  sable  cover,  and 
between  the  lace  curtains  Antony  could  see  the  trees  of 
the  park.  On  the  footstool  a  Pekinese  dog  sat  looking 
at  him  malevolently.  It  lifted  its  fluffy  body  daintily  and 
raised  its  impertinent  little  face  to  the  visitor.  Then  a 
door  opened  and  she  came  in  murmuring  his  name. 
Antony,  seeing  her  through  a  mist  of  love  which  had  not 
yet  cleared,  took  her  in  his  arms,  calling  her  "  Mary, 
Mary ! "  He  felt  the  form  and  shape  of  her  in  his  arms. 
As  dream  women  had  never  given  themselves  to  him,  so 
she  seemed  to  yield. 

^rhen  they  sat  side  by  side  on  the  little  sofa  the 
Pekinese  dog  jumped  up  and  sat  between  them.  She 
caressed  it  with  one  hand,  laying  the  other  on  Antony's 
shoulder. 

"  I  must  tell  you  my  life,"  he  said,  and  his  sight 
cleared  as  he  spoke,  and  he  saw  her  face  transformed  by 
its  emotion,  her  eyes  adoring  and  beautiful,  her  lips 
parted  as  if  the  breath  of  life  he  had  given  to  her  left  her 
wondering  still. 

"  Don't  tell  me  of  anything  to-day." 

He  took  the  hand  that  lay  on  his  shoulder  and  raised  it. 
"  I  must  tell  you  now." 

"  I  ask  for  nothing,  Antony.  What  does  the  past 
matter  ?  "  She  bent  forward  and  kissed  him  on  his  eyes. 
"  I  would  like  to  think  they  had  never  looked  at  anything 
before  to-day." 

He  smiled.  "  But  they  have  looked  hard  at  many 
things,  Mary.  They  will  always  look  deeply,  and  I  want 
you  to  look  back  with  me." 

She  sighed.  "  Then,  forward  with  me."  The 
Pekinese  dog  sprang  into  her  lap.  "  Go  on,"  she  said 
docilely ;  "  but  I  am  so  divinely  happy !  Why  should  we 
think  of  anything  else  ?  " 

He  brushed  away  the  mist  that  threatened  again  to 
cloud  his  vision.  He  took  ber  hand  and  held  it  firmly 
and,  lifting  up  his  head,  began  frankly  to  tell  her  of  his 
past. 

"  I  am  a  Southerner,  born  in  New  Orleans.  .  .  ." 

As  he  talked  she  listened  spellbound  by  his  power  of 


294  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

narrative.  In  his  speech  he  was  as  charming  a  creator  as 
in  his  art.  She  saw  the  picture  of  his  Louisiana  home; 
she  saw  the  exquisite  figure  of  his  mother;  she  saw  the 
beginning  of  his  genius  and  his  poetic,  dreaming  years. 
When  he  began  the  more  realistic  part  of  his  story,  talking 
aloud  like  this  of  himself  for  the  first  time  to  a  woman 
he  loved,  he  forgot  her  entirely,  carried  back  by  a  strong 
force  to  the  beginning  of  his  struggles  in  New  York.  She 
listened,  unchanged  and  a  little  terrified,  as  he  told  her 
of  his  work  in  the  sculptor's  studio,  disguising  the  name 
of  the  man  for  whom  he  worked.  She  stopped  him,  her 
hand  on  his.  So  had  she  asked  previously  Cedersholm. 
Her  voice  brought  him  back  to  the  present,  to  a  feeling 
that  for  nothing  in  the  world  would  he  tell  her  yet,  and 
he  said  "  No,  no/'  veiling  the  fact  so  that  he  could  not 
guess,  and  passed  over  the  misery  of  his  master's  treachery 
and  his  defeat.  But  through  his  narrative  like  a  flame, 
charming,  brilliant,  vivifying,  flashed  the  personality  of 
Bella,  though  a  child  only,  still  a  woman,  and  again  Mary 
Faversham,  with  her  hand  on  his  stopped  him  — 

"  What  a  bewitching  child,"  she  said.  "  Don't  speak 
of  her  with  such  fire.  I  believe  you  loved  her!  She 
must  be  a  woman." 

Antony  stirred.  He  rose  from  the  divan  where  he 
was  sitting  and  crossed  over  to  the  fireplace  and  stood 
by  the  eighteenth-century  clock  where  the  crystal  water 
fell  with  the  passing  moments.  She  looked  at  him  as  he 
stood  there,  powerfully  built,  strong,  the  light  of  his 
feeling  and  of  his  introspection  kindling  in  his  eyes  and 
on  his  brow.  It  had  been  three  o'clock  when  he  began 
his  story.  The  afternoon  grew  paler,  the  fire  died  down 
to  ashes  on  the  little  hearth.  He  took  a  cigarette  from 
his  pocket,  lit  it  and  stood  smoking  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  went  in  his  imagination  to  Albany  and  carried 
his  hearer  with  him,  and  he  began  to  speak  of  Molly.  He 
waited  for  a  moment  before  laying  bare  to  her  his  intimate 
ife.  As  he  turned  and  met  her  eyes,  he  said  — 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  this.  You  must 
listen  as  well  as  you  can.  It  is  life,  you  know,  and  there 
are  many  kinds." 

Antony,  absorbed  in  his  speech,  forgot  her  entirely. 
He  told  her  of  Molly  Shannon  with  a  tenderness  that 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  295 

would  have  moved  any  woman.  When  he  closed  the 
chapter  of  his  married  life,  with  his  last  words  a  silence 
fell,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  moved  beyond  what  he  had 
dreamed  she  would  be.  He  went  back  to  her,  waited  a 
moment,  then  sat  down  and  put  his  arm  around  her. 

"  That  is  my  past/'  he  murmured.  "  Can  you  forget 
what  there  is  in  it  of  defeat  and  forget  its  sorrow  ?  " 

She  kissed  him  and  murmured:  "I  love  you  the 
better  for  it.  It  seems  you  have  come  to  me  through 
thorny  ways,  Antony.  Perhaps  I  can  make  you  forget 
them." 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  she  would.  Even  in  this 
moment,  when  she  was  in  his  arms,  he  knew  that  in  her 
there-  would  be  no  such  oblivion  for  him.  The  marks 
were  too  deep  upon  him.  He  felt  them  now.  With  what 
he  had  been  saying,  there  came  back  to  him  a  sense  of  the 
tremendous  burden  he  had  borne  when  poor,  a  sense  of 
the  common  burden  we  all  bear  and  which  in  the  heart 
of  the  poet  nothing  ever  entirely  lifts. 

"  Listen/'  he  said  urgently  and  with  a  certain  solemnity. 
"  Any  other  man  would  speak  to  you  about  nothing  but 
love.  I  can  do  it  some  day  perhaps  too  easily,  but  not 
now,  for  this  is  our  beginning  and  between  us  both  there 
must  be  nothing  to  conceal."  He  thought  she  started  a 
little,  and  said  hastily :  "  I  mean,  nothing  for  our  souls 
to  hide.  What  I  have  told  you  is  my  life,  but  it  does  not 
end  there.  I  adore  my  work.  I  am  a  worker  born,  I  don't 
know  how  much  of  one,  but  I  must  give  my  time  and  my 
talent  to  it." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  breathed.  "  Do  you  think  I 
don't  realize  it,  Antony?  Do  you  think  I  don't  adore  you 
for  it?  Why,  it  is  part  of  what  makes  me  love  you." 

"  That  is  all,"  he  said.  "  I  could  no  more  emancipate 
myself  from  my  work  than  I  can  from  my  ideals;  they 
are  part  of  me.  I  am  perfectly  poor." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  softly,  "don't,  don't  speak  of 
that." 

He  turned  his  fine  eyes  on  her  with  a  light  in  them 
whose  courage  and  beauty  she  did  not  understand. 

"Why    not    speak    of    it?"    he    asked    quietly, 
am  not  ashamed  of  the  fact  that  I  have  no  money.     Such 
as  money  is,  I  shall  make  it  some  day,  and  I  shall  not 


296  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

value  it  then  any  more  than  I  do  now.  It  is  necessary, 
I  begin  to  see,  but  only  that.  Its  only  importance  is  the 
importance  we  give  to  it :  to  keep  straight  with  our  kind ; 
to  justify  our  existence,  and,"  he  continued,  "to  help 
the  next  man." 

His  face  took  a  firmer  expression.  More  than  in  his 
recitation  of  his  life  he  seemed  to  forget  her.  As  he  said 
so,  his  arms  fell  a  little  way  away  from  her  —  she  grew 
cold  —  he  seemed  a  stranger.  Only  for  a  moment,  however, 
for  he  turned,  put  out  his  arms,  and  drew  her  to  him.  He 
kissed  her  as  he  had  not  kissed  her  yet,  and  after  a  few 
moments  said  — 

"  Mary,  I  bring  you  my  talent,  and  my  manhood,  and 
my  courage  —  nothing  else  —  and  I  want  it  to  be  enough 
for  you." 

She  said  that  it  was.     That  it  was  more  than  enough. 

Fairfax  sighed,  his  arms  dropped,  he  smiled  and  looked 
at  her,  and  said  — 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  ? "  He  glanced  round  the  room 
quietly,  with  an  arrogance  of  which  he  was  unconscious. 
"  You  must  give  all  this  up,  Mary." 

"Must  I?"  She  flushed  and  laughed.  "You  mean 
to  say  you  want  me  to  come  to  Bohemia  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  live  as  I  can  live,"  he  said,  "  share 
what  I  must  have  .  .  .  that  is,  I  should  ask  you  that  if 
you  married  me  now.  .  .  ." 

He  watched  her  face.  It  was  still  illuminated.  Her 
love  for  him  was  too  vital  to  be  touched  by  this  proposition 
which  she  did  not  wholly  understand. 

"  Most  men  shrink,"  Fairfax  said,  "  from  taking  the 
woman  they  love  from  her  luxuries.  I  believe  that  I 
shall  not  be  poor  very  long.  It  will  be  a  struggle.  If 
you  marry  me  now,  you  will  share  it  with  me,  other- 
wise. .  .  ."  He  waited  a  moment. 

And  she  repeated :  "  Otherwise,  Antony  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go  away,"  he  answered,  "  and  not  come  back 
again  until  I  am  rich  and  great." 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

AFTER  he  had  left  her  he  was  dazed  and  incredulous. 
His  egoism,  his  enthusiasm,  his  idea  of  his  own  self- 
sufficiency  seemed  preposterous.  A  man  in  love  should 
entertain  no  idea  .but  the  thought  of  the  woman  herself. 
He  began  to  chafe  at  poverty  which  he  had  assured  her 
made  no  difference  to  him.  Did  he  wish  to  live  again 
terrible  years  of  sacrifice  and  sordidness?  If  so,  he  could 
not  hope  a  woman  accustomed  to  luxury  would  choose  to 
share  his  struggle.  He  was  absurd. 

"  Money,"  Dearborn  said,  regarding  his  shabby  cuffs, 
"  opens  many  doors.  I  am  inclined  also  to  think  that  it 
shuts  many  doors.  You  remember  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  and  the  needle's  eye;  but,"  he  continued  whimsi- 
cally, "  I  should  not  think  of  comparing  Mrs.  Faversham 
to  a  camel,  Tony !  " 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,"  said  Antony,  proudly.  "  Mrs. 
Faversham  and  I  feel  alike  about  it.  Money  will  play 
no  part  in  our  mutual  future."  And,  as  he  said  this,  was 
sure  neither  of  her  nor  of  himself. 

"  Under  which  circumstances,"  said  his  companion, 
"  I  shall  offer  you  another  cup  of  coffee  and  tell  you  my 
secret.  Going  with  my  play  to  London  is  not  the  only 
one.  I  am  in  love.  When  you  have  drunk  your  coffee 
we'll  go  home.  Potowski  is  going  to  play  for  us,  and  he 
is  going  to  bring  his  wife  at  last." 

The  two  friends  sat  that  evening  in  a  corner  of  a 
cafe  on  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse.  There  were 
Bohemians  around  them  at  their  table,  ami  they  themselves 
were  part  of  that  happy,  struggling  world.  Dearborn 
dropped  his  voice,  and  said  softly  to  Fairfax  — 

297 


298  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

"  And  I  have  asked  my  little  girl  to  come  as  well 
to-night  to  hear  the  music." 

Fairfax,  instead  of  drinking  his  coffee,  stared  at 
Dearborn,  and  when  Dearborn  murmured,  "  Nora  Scarlet 
is  her  name.  Isn't  it  a  name  for  a  drama  ? "  Fairfax- 
stared  still  harder  and  repeated  the  girl's  name  under  his 
breath,  flushing,  but  Dearborn  did  not  observe  it. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  her,  Tony ;  she  is  sweet  and  good." 

"Bob,"  said  Fairfax  gravely,  "you  mean  to  tell  me 
you  have  been  falling  in  love  and  carrying  on  a  romance 
without  telling  me  a  word  about  it  ?  " 

Dearborn  smiled.  "  To  tell  the  truth,  old  man,"  he 
replied,  "you  have  been  so  absorbed;  there  was  not  room 
for  two  romances  in  the  studio. 

"  I  met  her  in  the  springtime,  Gentle  Annie,"  Dearborn 
said  whimsically,  "  and  it  was  raining  cats  and  dogs  — 
but  for  me  it  rained  just  love  and  Nora.  We  were  both 
waiting  for  a  'bus.  Neither  one  of  us  had  an  umbrella. 
Now  that  you  speak  of  it,  Tony,  I  think  we  have  never 
mended  that  lack  in  our  possessions.  We  climbed  to 
the  imperials  together,  and  the  rain  beat  upon  us  both. 
We  laughed,  and  I  said  to  myself,  a  girl  that  can  laugh 
like  that  in  a  shower  should  be  put  aside  for  a  rainy  day. 
We  talked  and  we  giggled.  The  rain  stopped.  We1 
forgot  to  get  down.  We  went  to  the  end  of  the  line  and 
still  we  forgot  to  get  down.  The  conductor  collected  a 
double  fare,  and  afterward  I  took  her  home." 

(Antony  thought  to  himself,  "  Just  what  I  did  not  do.") 

"  She  is  angelic,  Tony,  delightful,  an  artist's  dream,  a 
writer's  inspiration,  and  a  poor  man's  fairy." 

Fairfax  laughed. 

"  Don't  laugh,  old  man,"  said  Dearborn  simply.  "  I 
have  never  heard  you  rave  like  this  about  the  peerless 
Mary." 

Fairfax  said,  "  No.  But  then  you  talk  better  than  I 
do."  He  shook  Dearborn's  hand  warmly.  "  You  know 
I  am  most  awfully  glad,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  am,"  said  Dearborn,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

He  settled  himself  with  a  beautiful  content,  asking 
nothing  better  than  to  go  on  rehearsing  his  love  affair. 

"We  have  been  engaged  a  long  time,  Tony.  It  is 
only  a  question  of  how  little  two  people  can  dare  to  try 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  299 

to  get  on  with,  you  know,  and  I  have  determined  to 
risk  it." 

As  they  went  up  the  steps  of  the  studio  together, 
Fairfax  said  — 

"  She  is  coming  to-night,  Bob,  you  say  ?  Does  she 
know  anything  about  me  ?  " 

At  this  Dearborn  laughed  aloud.  "  She  knows  a 
great  deal  about  me,  Tony.  My  dear  boy,  do  you  think 
we  have  talked,  much  about  anything  but  each  other? 
Do  you  talk  with  Mrs.  Faversham  about  me?  Nora 
knows  I  live  here  with  a  chum.  She  doesn't  even  know 
your  name." 

As  Dearborn  threw  open  the  door  they  could  hear 
Potowski  playing  softly  the  old  French  ballad,  "  J'ai  perdu 
ma  tourterelle." 

A  woman  sat  by  Potowski  in  a  big  chair,  and  the  lamp 
on  the  piano  shone  yellow  upon  her.  When  the  two 
men  entered  the  studio  she  rose,  and  Potowski,  still 
playing,  said  — 

"  Let  me  present,  at  last,  my  better  half.  Mes  amis, 
la  Comtesse  Potowski." 

Dearborn  greeted  her  enthusiastically,  and  Tony  stood 
petrified.  The  comtesse,  more  mistress  of  the  moment 
than  Tony  was,  put  out  one  hand  and  smiled,  but  she 
had  turned  very  pale. 

It  was  his  Aunt  Caroline.  .  .  . 

"Mr.  Rainsford,"  she  lifted  her  brows,  "I  think  I 
have  seen  you  before." 

Tony  bowed  over  her  hand  and  Potowski,  still  smiling 
and  nodding,  cried  — 

"  These  are  great  men  and  geniuses,  ma  cherie.  You 
have  here  two  great  artists  together.  They  both  have 
wings  on  their  shoulders.  Before  they  fly  away  from  us 
and  are  lost  on  Olympus,  be  charming  to  them.  Carolina, 
ma  cherie,  they  shall  hear  you  sing." 

Robert  Dearborn  put  his  hand  on  Potowski's  shoulder 
and  said  — 

"We  love  your  husband,  madame.  He  has  been  such 
a  bully  friend  to  us,  such  a  wonderful  friend." 

"  Poof,  my  dear  Bobbie,"  murmured  Potowski. 

("J'ai  perdu  ma  tourterelle.") 

Fairfax    asked,    looking    directly    at    her,    "Will    you 


300  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

really  sing  for  us,  Madame  Potowski  ?  Can  you  sing  some 
old  English  ballad?  We  have  not  heard  a  word  of 
English  for  many  a  long  day/' 

Potowski  wandered  softly  into  a  familiar  tune.  He 
smiled  over  his  shoulder  at  his  wife,  and,  standing  by  the 
piano,  Caroline  Carew  —  Carolina  Potowski  —  put  her 
hands  over  her  husband's  on  the  keys  and  indicated  an 
accompaniment,  humming. 

"  If  you  can,  dear,  I  will  sing  Mr.  Kainsford  this." 

Tony  took  his  place  on  the  divan. 

Then  Madame  Potowski  sang : 

"Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton." 

In  New  York  Tony  had  said,  as  he  sat  in  the  big  Puritan 
parlour,  that  her  voice  was  divine.  No  one  who  has  ever 
heard  Carolina  Potowski  sing  "  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton  " 
can  ever  forget  it.  Tony  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  said  to  himself,  being  an  artist  as  well,  "  No  matter 
what  she  has  done,  it  was  worth  it  to  produce  such  art 
as  that." 

"  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braea 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise, 
My  Mary  is  asleep  by  your  turbulent  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream." 

Little  Gardiner  once  more  leaned  against  his  arm; 
restless  little  Bella  in  red,  her  hair  down  her  back,  slipped 
out  of  the  room  to  read  in  peace,  and  he  sat  there,  a 
homeless  stranger  in  a  Northern  city  without  a  cent  of 
money  in  his  pocket,  and  the  desires  of  life  and  art  shining 
in  his  soul. 

"  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton." 

He  indistinctly  heard  Dearborn  open  the  door.  A 
woman  slipped  in  and  went  over  and  sat  down  by  her 
lover.  The  two  sat  together  holding  hands,  and  "  Sweet 
Afton "  flowed  on,  and  nobody's  dream  was  disturbed. 
Little  Gardiner  slept  his  peaceful  sleep  in  his  child's 
grave;  his  mother  slept  her  sleep  in  a  Southern  cemetery; 
the  Angel  of  Eesurrection  raised  his  spotless  wings  over 
the  city  of  the  silent  dead,  and  Antony's  heart  swelled 
in  his  breast. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  301 

When  the  Comtesse  Potowski  stopped  singing  no  one 
said  a  word.  Her  husband  played  a  few  bars  of  Werther 
and  she  sang  the  "  Love  Letters/'  Then,  before  she 
ceased,  Antony  was  conscious  that  Nora  Scarlet  had 
recognized  him.  Before  any  embarrassment  could  be 
between  them,  he  went  over  to  her  and  took  her  hand, 
saying  warmly  — 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Miss  Scarlet.  Dearborn  has  told  me 
of  his  good  fortune.  He  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world, 
and  I  know  how  lucky  he  is,"  and  Nora  Scarlet  murmured 
something,  with  her  eyes  turned  away  from  him. 

Tony  turned  to  Madame  Potowski  and  said  ardently, 
"You^must  let  me  come  to  see  you  to-morrow.  I  want 
to  th'ank  you  for  this  wonderful  treat." 

And  when  Potowski  and  his  Aunt  Caroline  had  gone, 
and  when  Dearborn  had  taken  Nora  Scarlet  home,  Antony 
stood  in  the  studio,  which  still  vibrated  with  the  tones  of  the 
lovely  voice.  He  had  lived  once  again  a  part  of  his  old 
life.  This  was  his  mother's  sister,  and  she  had  made 
havoc  of  her  home.  He  thought  of  little  Bella's  visit  to 
him  in  Albany. 

"  Mother  has  done  something  perfectly  terrible, 
Cousin  Antony  —  something  a  daughter  is  not  supposed 
to  know." 

Well,  the  something  perfectly  terrible  was,  she  had 
set  herself  free  from  a  man  she  did  not  love;  that  she 
was  making  Potowski  happy;  that  she  had  found  her 
sphere  and  soared  into  it. 

Fairfax  tried  in  vain  to  think  of  himself  now  and 
Mary  Faversham,  but  he  could  not.  The  past  rushed  on 
him  with  its  palpitating  wings.  He  groaned  and  stretched 
out  his  arms  into  the  shadows  of  the  room. 

"  There  is  something  that  chains  me,  holds  me  prisoner. 
I  am  wedded  to  something  —  is  it  death  and  a  tomb  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DURING  the  following  weeks  it  seemed  to  him  he  was 
chasing  his  soul  and  her  own.  In  their  daily  intercourse  — 
sweet,  of  course,  tender,  of  course  —  there  was  a  constant 
sense  of  limitation.  He  wanted  her  to  share  with  him 
his  love  of  the  beautiful,  but  Mary  Faversham  was  con- 
ventional. He  would  have  spent  hours  with  her  in  the 
Louvre,  hanging  over  treasures,  musing  before  pictures 
whose  art  he  felt  he  could  never  sufficiently  make  his 
own.  Mrs.  Faversham  followed  him  closely,  but  after 
a  time  watched  the  people.  Whilst  her  lover  —  in  love 
with  all  beauty  —  remained  transfixed  over  the  con- 
templation of  a  petrified  rose  found  in  the  ruins  of  Pompeii, 
or  intoxicated  himself  with  the  beauty  of  an  urn,  she 
would  interrupt  his  meditation  by  speaking  to  him  of 
unimportant  things.  She  found  resemblances  in  the 
little  Grecian  statues  to  her  friends  in  society.  Tony 
sighed  and  relinquished  seeing  museums  with  Mary.  She 
patronized  art  with  largesse  and  generosity  but  he  dis- 
covered it  was  one  way  to  her  of  spending  money,  an 
agreeable,  satisfying  way  to  a  woman  of  breeding  and 
refinement. 

The  bewitching  charm  of  her  clothes,  her  great  expendi- 
tures on  herself,  made  him  open  his  blue  eyes.  Once  he 
held  her  exquisitely  shod  foot  in  his  hand,  admiring  its 
beauty  and  its  slenderness.  On  the  polished  leather  was 
the  sparkle  of  her  paste  buckles;  he  admired  the  ephem- 
eral web  of  her  silk  stocking,  and  was  ashamed  that  the 
thought  should  cross  his  mind  as  to  what  this  lovely  foot 
represented  of  extravagance.  But  he  had  been  with  her 
when  she  bought  the  buckles  on  the  Hue  de  la  Paix; 
he  knew  the  price  they  cost.  Was  the  money  making  him 
gordid  —  hypercritical,  unkind  ? 

I4fe  for  six  months  whirled,  round  him.  Mary 
302 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  303 

Faversham  dazzled  and  bewitched  him,  charmed  and 
flattered  him.  Their  engagement  had  not  been  made 
public.  He  ceased  to  work;  he  was  at  her  beck  and 
call;  he  went  with  her  everywhere.  At  her  house,  in 
her  box  at  the  opera,  he  met  all  Paris.  She  was  hardly 
ever  alone  with  him;  he  made  one  of  a  group.  Never- 
theless, they  were  talked  about.  Several  orders  for  busts 
were  the  outcome  of  his  meeting  fashionable  Paris;  but 
he  did  not  work.  Toward  March  he  received  word  from 
America  that  his  bas-relief  under  the  name  of  Thomas 
Rainsford  had  won  the  ten  thousand  dollar  prize.  He 
felt  like  a  prince.  For  some  singular  reason  he  told  no 
one,  not  even  Dearborn.  In  writing  to  him  the  committee 
had  ,told  him  that  according  to  the  contracts  the  money 
would  not  be  forthcoming  until  July.  He  had  gone  through 
so  many  bitter  disappointments  in  his  life  that  he  did  not 
want  in  the  minds  of  his  friends  to  anticipate  this  payment 
and  be  disappointed  anew. 

Among  his  fellow-workers  in  the  Barye  studio  was 
the  son  of  a  millionaire  pork-packer  from  Chicago.  The 
young  man  took  a  tremendous  liking  to  Antony.  With 
a  certain  perspicacity,  the  rich  young  fellow  divined 
much  of  his  new  friend's  needs.  He  came  to  the  studio, 
to  their  different  reunions,  and  chummed  heartily  with 
Dearborn  and  Fairfax.  Peterson  was  singularly  lacking 
in  talent  and  tremendously  over-furnished  with  heart. 
One  day,  as  they  worked  side  by  side  in  the  studio  of  the 
big  man,  Peterson  watched  Antony's  handling  of  a  tiger's 
head. 

"  By  Jove ! "  cried  the  Chicagoan,  "  you  are  simply 
great  —  you  are  simply  great!  I  wonder  if  you  would  be 
furious  with  me  if  I  said  something  to  you  that  is  on  my 
mind?" 

The  something  on  the  simple  young  man's  mind  was 
that  he  wanted  to  lend  Fairfax  a  sum  of  money,  to  be 
paid  back  when  the  sculptor  saw  fit.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  Antony  accepted  the  loan,  making  it  one- 
third  as  much  as  the  big-hearted  chap  had  suggested. 
Fairfax  set  July  as  the  date  of  payment,  when  his  com- 
petitive money  should  come  in.  He  borrowed  just 
enough  to  keep  him  in  food  and  clothes  for  the  following 
months. 


304  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

There  were  no  motors  in  Paris  then.  In  the  mornings 
he  drove  with  Mrs.  Faversham  to  the  Bois  and  limped 
by  her  side  in  the  allees,  whilst  the  worldly  people  stared 
at  the  distinguished,  conspicuous  couple.  One  day  Barye 
himself  stopped  them,  and  to  the  big  man  Antony  pre- 
sented Mrs.  Faversham  who  did  not  happen  to  know  her 
fiance's  chief. 

Fairfax  looked  at  her  critically  as  she  laughed  and 
was  sweet  and  gracious.  Carriages  filed  past  them ; 
shining  equipages,  the  froth  and  wine  of  life  flowed  around 
them  under  the  trees,  whose  chestnut  torches  were  lit 
with  spring. 

Barye  said  to  Antony,  "  Not  working,  are  you,  Rains- 
ford?  C'est  dommaqe,"  and  turning  to  Mrs.  Faversham 
he  added,  nodding,  "  C'est  domm-age" 

Antony  heard  the  words  throughout  the  day,  and  they 
haunted  him  —  c'est  dommage.  Barye's  voice  had  been 
light,  but  the  sculptor  knew  the  underlying  ring  in  it. 
There  is,  indeed,  no  greater  pity  than  for  a  man  of  talent 
not  to  work.  That  day  he  lunched  with  her  on  the 
terrace  of  her  hotel  overlooking  the  rose  garden.  Fairfax 
ate  scarcely  anything.  Below  his  eyes  spread  a  parterre 
of  perfect  purple  heliotropes.  The  roses  were  beginning 
to  bloom  on  their  high  trees,  and  the  moist  earth  odours 
from  the  garden  he  had  thought  so  exquisite  came  to 
him  delicately  on  the  warm  breeze.  But  this  day  the 
place  seemed  oppressive,  shut  in  by  its  high  iron  walls. 
In  the  corner  of  the  garden,  the  gardener,  an  old  man  in 
blue  overalls,  bent  industriously  over  his  potting,  and  to 
Antony  he  seemed  the  single  worthy  figure.  At  the 
table  he  was  surrounded  by  idlers  and  millionaires.  He 
judged  them  bitterly  to-day,  brutally  and  unreasonably, 
and  hastily  looked  toward  Mrs.  Faversham,  his  future 
life's  companion,  hoping  that  something  in  her  expression 
or  in  her  would  disenchant  him  from  the  growing  horror 
that  was  threatening  to  destroy  his  peace  of  mind.  Mary 
Faversham  was  all  in  white;  from  her  ears  hung  the 
pearls  given  her  by  her  husband,  whom  she  had  never 
loved;  around  her  neck  hung  a  creamy  rope  of  pearls; 
she  was  discussing  with  her  neighbour  the  rising  value 
of  different  jewels.  It  seemed  to  them  both  a  vital  and 
interesting  subject. 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEiDE  305 

It  was  the  end  of  luncheon;  the  fragrance  of  the 
strawberries,  the  fragrance  of  the  roses  came  heavily  to 
Antony's  nostrils. 

His  aunt,  the  Comtesse  Potowski,  sat  at  his  right. 
She  was  saying  — 

"  My  dear  boy,  when  are  you  going  to  be  married  ? 
There  is  nothing  like  a  happy  marriage,  Tony.  A  woman 
may  have  children,  you  know,  and  be  miserable;  she  has 
not  found  the  right  man.  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy, 
Tony." 

Some  one  asked  her  to  sing,  and  Madame  Potowski, 
languid,  slim,  with  unmistakable  distinction,  rose  to 
play.  ,^She  suggested  his  mother  to  Antony.  She  sang 
selections  from  the  opera  then  in  vogue.  Tony  stood  near 
the  piano  and  listened.  Her  voice  always  affected  him 
deeply,  and  as  he  had  responded  to  it  in  the  old  days  in 
New  York  he  responded  now,  and  there  was  a  sense  of 
misery  at  his  heart  as  he  listened  to  her  singing  the  music 
of  old  times  when  he  had  been  unable  to  carry  out  his 
ideals  because  of  his  suffering  and  poverty. 

There  was  now  a  sense  of  soul  discontent,  of  pitiless 
remorse.  As  if  again  to  disenchant  himself,  he  glanced  at 
Mary  as  she,  too,  listened.  Back  of  her  in  the  vases  were 
high  branches  of  lilac,  white  and  delicate,  with  the  first 
beauty  of  spring;  she  sat  gracefully  indolent,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  evidently  dreaming  of  pleasant  things.  To 
Antony  there  was  a  blank  wall  now  between  him  and  his 
visions.  How  unreal  everything  but  money  seemed,  and 
his  soul  stifled  and  his  senses  numbed.  In  this  atmos- 
phere of  riches  and  luxury  what  place  had  he  ?  Penniless, 
unknown,  his  stature  stunted  —  for  it  had  been  dwarfed 
by  his  idleness.  Again  he  heard  Barye  say,  "  C'est 
dommage." 

His  aunt's  voice,  bright  as  silver,  filled  the  room. 
He  believed  she  was  singing  for  him  expressly,  for  she 
had  chosen  an  English  ballad  — "  Roll  on,  silvery  moon." 
Again,  with  a  sadness  which  all  imaginative  and  poetic 
natures  understand,  his  present  slipped  away.  He  was 
back  in  Albany  in  the  cab  of  his  engine;  the  air  bellied 
in  his  sleeve,  the  air  of  home  whipped  in  his  veins  —  he 
saw  the  fields  as  the  engine  flashed  by  them,  whitening 
under  the  moonlight  as  the  silvery  moon  rolled  on !  How 


306  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

he  had  sweated  to  keep  himself  a  man,  how  he  had  toiled 
to  keep  his  hope  up  and  to  live  his  life  well,  what  a  fight 
he  had  made  in  order  that  his  visions  might  declare 
themselves  to  him ! 

When  his  aunt  ceased  to  sing  and  people  gathered 
around  her,  Tony  rose  and  limped  over  to  Mrs.  Faversham. 
He  put  out  his  hand. 

"  I  must  go,  Mary,"  he  said.  "  I  have  some  work  to 
do  this  afternoon." 

She  smiled  at  him.     "  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Tony." 

The  others  had  moved  away  to  speak  to  the  Comtesse 
Potowski,  and  they  were  alone. 

"  I  am  becoming  ridiculous,"  said  Antony,  "  that  is  true, 
but  it  is  not  because  I  am  going  to  work." 

She  did  not  seem  to  notice  anything  in  his  gravity. 
"  Don't  forget  we  are  dining  and  driving  out  to  Versailles ; 
don't  forget,  Tony." 

Fairfax  made  no  response.  On  his  face  was  a  pitiless 
look,  but  Mrs.  Faversham,  happy  in  her  successful  break- 
fast and  enchanted  with  the  music,  did  not  read  his 
expression. 

"  I  will  come  in  to-morrow,  Mary." 

Mrs.  Faversham,  turning  to  a  man  who  had  come  up 
to  her,  still  understood  nothing. 

"Don't  forget,  Tony," — she  nodded  at  him — "this 
afternoon." 

Antony  bade  her  good-bye.  He  looked  back  at  her 
across  the  room,  and  she  seemed  to  him  then  the  greatest 
stranger  of  them  all. 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

HE  went  upstairs  to  his  atelier  with  a  strange  eager 
hammering  at  his  heart.  For  several  weeks  the  studio 
had  been,  for  him,  little  more  than  an  ante-chamber  — 
a  dressing-room  where  he  had  made  careful  toilettes 
before  going  to  Mrs.  Faversham.  His  constant  attendance 
upon  a  beautiful  woman  had  turned  him  into  something 
of  a  dandy,  and  the  purchase  of  fine  clothes  and  linen  had 
eaten  well  into  his  borrowed  money,  which  had  been 
frankly  used  by  Dearborn  when  in  need. 

"  Dearborn,  wear  any  of  my  things  you  like,  only 
don't  get  ink  spots  on  them,  for  God's  sake ! " 

And  Dearborn  had  responded,  "  I  don't  need  to  go 
courting  in  four-hundred-franc  suits,  Tony;  Nora  is  my 
kind,  you  know." 

And  when  Antony  had  flashed  out,  "What  the  devil 
do  you  mean  ?  "  Dearborn  explained  — 

"  Only  that  Nora  and  I  are  poor  together.  I  didn't 
intend  to  be  rude,  old  man." 

Dearborn  had  gone  to  London  third-class  with  his 
play  under  his  arm  and  hope  in  his  heart.  Antony  had 
not  been  sorry  to  find  himself  alone.  When  he  was  not 
with  Mary  he  paced  the  floor,  his  idle  hands  in  his  pockets. 
At  night  he  was  restless,  and  he  did  not  disturb  any  one 
when  at  two  o'clock  he  would  rise  to  smoke,  and,  leaning 
out  of  the  window,  watch  the  dawn  come  up  over  the 
Louvre,  over  the  river  and  the  quays.  His  easels,  his 
tools,  his  covered  busts  mocked  him  as  the  dust  settled 
down  upon  them.  His  part  of  the  big  room  had  fallen 
into  disuse.  In  the  salons  of  Mary  Faversham  nothing 
seemed  important  but  the  possession  of  riches;  they 
talked  of  art  there,  but  they  discussed  it  easily,  and  no 
one  ever  spoke  of  work.  They  talked  of  books  there, 

307  " 


308  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

but  the  makers  of  them  seemed  men  of  another  sphere. 
His  aunt  and  the  Comte  Potowski  sang  there  indeed, 
but  to  Antony  their  voices  were  only  echoes.  He  had 
grown  accustomed  to  objects  whose  possession  meant 
small  fortunes.  His  own  few  belongings  seemed  pitiful 
and  sordid.  Poverty  at  Albany  had  appalled  him,  but 
as  yet  his  soul  had  been  untarnished.  Life  seemed  then 
a  beautiful  struggle.  Here  in  Paris,  too,  as  he  worked 
with  Dearborn  in  his  studio,  the  lack  of  money  had  been 
unimportant,  and  privation  only  a  step  on  which  men  of 
talent  poised  before  going  on.  Lessons  had  been  precious 
to  him,  and  in  his  meagre  existence  all  his  untrammelled 
senses  had  been  keen.  Now  his  lack  of  material  resource 
was  terrible,  degrading,  sickening. 

He  threw  open  wide  the  window  and  let  in  the  May 
sunlight,  and  the  noise  of  the  streets  came  with  it.  Below 
his  window  paused  the  "  goat's  milkman,"  calling  sweetly 
on  his  little  pipe;  a  girl  cried  lilies  of  the  valley;  there 
was  a  cracking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  horses'  feet, 
and  the  rattling  of  the  little  cabs.  The  peculiar  im- 
personality of  the  few  of  the  big  city,  the  passing  of  the 
anonymous  throng,  had  a  soothing  effect  upon  him.  The 
river  flowed  quietly,  swiftly  past  the  Louvre,  on  which 
great  white  clouds  massed  themselves  like  snow.  Fairfax 
drew  a  long  breath  and  turned  to  the  studio,  put  on  his 
old  corduroy  clothes,  filled  himself  a  pipe,  and  uncovered 
one  of  his  statues  in  the  corner,  and  with  his  tools  in  his 
hand  took  his  position  before  his  discarded  work. 

This  study  had  not  struck  him  as  being  successful 
when  he  had  thrown  the  cloth  over  it  in  February,  when 
he  had  gone  up  to  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
Since  that  time  he  had  not  touched  his  clay.  Now  the 
piece  of  work  struck  his  critical  sense  with  its  several 
qualities  of  merit.  He  was  too  real  an  artist  not  to  see 
its  value  and  to  judge  it.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had 
created  that  charming  thing  —  had  there  been  in  him 
sufficient  talent  to  form  those  plastic  lines?  It  was 
impossible  for  Antony  to  put  himself  in  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  he  had  been  before  he  left  his  work ;  in  vain 
he  tried  to  bring  back  the  old  inspiration  of  feeling.  The 
work  was  strange  to  him,  and  almost  beautiful  too.  He 
was  jealous  of  it,  angry  at  it.  Had  he  become  in  so  short 


309 

a  time  a  useless  man?  He  should  have  been  gaining  in 
experience.  A  man  is  all  the  richer  for  being  in  love 
and  being  loved.  The  image  of  Mary  would  not  come 
to  him  to  soothe  his  irritation.  He  seemed  to  see  her 
surrounded  by  people  and  things.  Evidently  his  love  had 
not  inspired  him,  nor  did  luxury  and  the  intercourse 
with  worldly  people.  He  had  been  the  day  before  with 
Mary  to  see  the  crowning  exhibition  of  a  celebrated 
painter's  work,  the  fruits  of  four  years  of  labour.  The 
artist  himself,  frightfully  obese,  smiling  and  self-satisfied, 
stood  surrounded  by  his  canvases.  None  of  the  paint- 
ings had  the  spontaneity  and  beauty  of  his  early  works  — 
not  one.  Fairfax  had  heard  a  Latin  Quarter  student 

say,  "  B used  to  paint  with  his  soul  before  he  was 

rich,  now  he  paints  with  his  stomach/'  The  marks  of  the 
beast  had  stamped  out  the  divine  seal. 

As  Fairfax  mixed  his  clay  in  the  silent  room  where 
he  and  Dearborn  had  half  starved  together,  he  said, 
"  I  have  never  yet  become  so  frightfully  rich  as  to 
imperil  my  soul." 

In  the  declining  spring  light  he  began  to  model.  He 
did  not  look  like  a  happy  man,  like  a  happy  lover,  like  a 
man  destined  to  marry  a  beautiful  woman  with  several 
millions  of  dollars.  "  Damn  money/'  he  muttered  as  he 
worked,  and,  after  a  little,  "  Damn  poverty,"  he  murmured. 
What  was  it,  then,  he  could  bless?  In  his  present  point 
of  view  nothing  seemed  blessed.  He  was  working  savagely 
and  heavily,  but  hungrily  too,  as  though  he  besought  his 
hands  to  find  again  for  him  the  sacred  touch  that  should 
electrify  him  again,  or  as  though  he  prayed  his  brain  to 
send  its  enlightened  message  to  his  hand,  or  as  though  he 
called  on  his  emotion  to  warm  his  hardened  heart  —  a 
combination  which  he  believed  was  needful  to  work  and 
art.  Fairfax  was  so  working  when  the  porter  brought  him 
a  letter. 

It  was  from  Dearborn,  and  Antony  read  it  eagerly, 
holding  it  up  to  the  fading  light.  As  he  saw  Dearborn's 
handwriting  he  realized  that  he  missed  his  companion, 
and  also  realized  the  strong  link  between  them  which  is 
so  defined  between  those  who  work  at  a  kindred  art. 

"  Dear   old   man/' —  the    letter    was    dated    London  - 
"  I  am  sky-high  in  a  room  for  which  I  pay  a  shilling  a 


316  FAIRFAX  Aro  HIS  PRIDE 

night.  A  thing  in  the  roof  is  called  a  window.  Through 
it  I  see  a  field  of  pots  —  not  flower-pots,  but  chimney-pots 
—  and  the  smoke  from  them  is  hyacinthine.  The  smoke 
of  endless  winters  and  innumerable  fogs  has  grimed  every 
blessed  thing  in  this  filthy  room.  My  bed-spread  is  grey 
cloth,  once  meant  to  be  white.  Other  lodgers  have  left 
burnt  matches  on  the  faded  carpet,  whose  flowers  have 
long  since  been  put  out  by  the  soot.  Out  of  this  hole  in 
the  roof  I  see  London,  the  sky-line  of  London  in  a  spring 
sky.  There  is  a  singular  sort  of  beauty  in  this  sky,  as  if 
it  had  trailed  its  cerulean  mantle  over  fields  of  English 
bluebells.  For  another  shilling  I  dine;  for  another  I 
lunch.  I  skip  breakfast.  I  calculate  I  can  stay  here 
ten  days,  then  the  shillings  will  be  all  gone,  Tony.  In 
these  ten  days,  old  man,  I  shall  sell  my  play.  I  am 
writing  you  this  on  the  window-sill ;  without  is  the  mutter 
of  soft  thunder  of  London  —  the  very  word  London  thrills 
me  to  the  marrow.  Such  great  things  have  come  out 
of  London  —  such  prose  —  such  verse  —  such  immortality ! 

"  To-day  I  passed  '  Jo/  Dickens's  street-sweeper,  in 
Dickens's  '  Bleak  House/  I  felt  like  saying  to  him,  '  I 
am  as  poor  as  you  are,  Jo,  to-day/  but  I  remembered  there 
were  a  few  shillings  between  us. 

"Well,  old  man,  as  I  sit  here  I  seem  to  have  risen 
high  above  the  roof-tops  and  to  look  down  on  the  struggle 
in  this  great  vortex  of  life,  and  here  and  there  a  man  goes 
amongst  them  all,  carrying  a  wreath  of  laurel.  Tony, 
my  eyes  are  upon  him !  Call  me  a  fool  if  you  will,  call  me 
mad;  at  any  rate  I  have  faith.  I  know  I  will  succeed. 
Something  tells  me  I  will  stand  before  the  curtain  when 
they  call  my  name.  It  is  growing  late.  I  must  go  out 
and  forage  for  food  .  .  .  Tony.  I  kiss  the  hand  of  the 
beautiful  Mrs.  Faversham." 

Antony  turned  the  pages  between  his  fingers.  The 
reading  of  the  letter  had  smoothed  the  creases  from  his 
brow.  He  sighed  as  he  lifted  his  head  to  say  "  Come  in," 
for  some  one  had  knocked  timidly  at  the  door. 

"  Hello ! "  Fairfax  said,  and  now  that  they  were  alone 
he  called  her  "  Aunt  Caroline." 

Madame  Potowski  came  forward  and  kissed  him. 

He  drew  a  big  chair  into  the  window.  He  was  always 
solicitous  of  her  and  a  little  pitiful. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  311 

Madame  Potowski's  hair  had  been  soft  brown  once; 
it  was  golden,  frankly  so,  now,  and  her  fine  lips  were  a 
little  rouged.  In  her  dress  of  changeable  silk,  her  cape 
of  tulle,  her  hat  with  a  bunch  of  roses,  her  tiny  gloved 
hands,  she  was  a  very  elegant  little  lady.  She  rested  her 
hands  on  her  parasol  and  had  suggested  his  mother  to 
Antony.  Then,  as  that  resemblance  passed,  came  the 
fleeting  suggestion  which  he  never  cared  to  hold  —  of 
Bella. 

"  I  have  come,  my  dear  Tony,  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to 
see  you  alone." 

Tony  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  by  her  side.  The  Comtesse 
Potowski  had  a  little  diamond  watch  with  a  chain  on  her 
breast.  Outside  the  clock  struck  five. 

"I  have  only  a  second  to  stay  —  my  husband  misses 
me  if  I  am  five  minutes  out  of  his  sight." 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  Aunt  Caroline." 

"  Isn't  it  all  strange,  Tony,"  she  asked,  "  how  very 
far  up  we  have  come  ?  " 

He  shook  the  ashes  off  his  cigar.  "Well,  I  don't  feel 
myself  very  far  up,  Aunt  Caroline." 

"  My  dear  Tony,  aren't  you  going  to  marry  an  immense 
fortune  ?  " 

"  Is  that  what  people  say,  Aunt  Caroline  ?  " 

"  You  are  going  to  do  a  very  brilliant  thing,  Tony." 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  going  very  far  up  ?  " 

His  aunt  shook  her  pretty  head.  "  Money  is  the 
greatest  power  in  the  world,  dear  boy.  Art  is  very  well,  but 
there  is  nothing  in  the  wide  world  like  an  income,  dear." 

Her  nephew  stirred  in  his  chair.  Caroline  Potowski 
looked  down  at  her  little  diamond  watch,  her  dress  shining 
like  a  bunch  of  many-hued  roses.  Antony  knew  that  her 
husband  was  rich;  he  also  made  a  good  income  from 
his  singing  and  she  must  have  made  not  an  inconsiderable 
fortune. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  said  his  aunt 
later,  her  hand  on  his  own.  "You  have  shown  great 
wisdom,  great  worldly  wisdom." 

"  My  God !  "  exclaimed  her  nephew  between  his  teeth. 

If  Madame  Potowski  heard  this  exclamation,  it  was 
not  tragic  to  her.  She  lowered  her  tone,  although  there 
was  no  one  to  hear  them, 


312  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

"  Tony,  I  am  very  anxious  about  money/' 

Her  nephew  laughed  aloud.  In  spite  of  himself  there 
came  over  him  in  a  flash  the  memory  of  the  day  nearly 
ten  years  ago  when  she  sat  on  the  side  of  his  miserable 
little  bed  in  his  miserable  little  room  in  New  York  and 
took  from  him  as  a  loan  —  which  she  never  meant  to  pay 
back  —  all  the  money  he  had  in  the  world.  He  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Has  your  husband  any  financial  difficulties  ?  " 

"My  husband  knows  nothing  about  it,"  she  said 
serenely.  "You  don't  suppose  I  could  tell  him,  do  you? 
I  must  have  five  thousand  francs,  dear  Tony,  before  to- 
morrow." 

Tony  said  lightly,  "I  am  afraid  economy  is  not  your 
strong  point." 

"  Tony,"  she  exclaimed  reproachfully,  "I  am  a 
wonderful  manager;  I  can  make  a  franc  go  further  than 
my  husband  can  a  louis,  and  I  have  a  real  gift  for  bargains. 
Think  of  it !  I  only  had  one  hundred  dollars  a  month  to 
dress  myself  and  Bella  and  poor  little  Gardiner,  and  for 
all  my  little  expenses."  The  children's  names  on  her 
lips  seemed  sacrilege  to  him.  He  did  not  wish  her  to 
speak  those  sacred  names,  or  destroy  his  sacred  past, 
whose  charm  and  tenderness  persisted  over  all  the  suffer- 
ing and  which  nothing  could  destroy.  "  I  have  been  buying 
a  quantity  of  old  Chinese  paintings  —  a  great  bargain; 
in  ten  years  they  will  be  worth  double  the  money.  You 
must  come  and  see  them.  The  dealer  will  deliver  them 
to-morrow." 

"  History,"  Antony  thought,  "  how  it  repeats  itself !  " 

Caroline  Potowski  leaned  toward  her  nephew  per- 
suasively, and  even  in  the  softened  twilight  he  saw  the 
weakness  and  the  caprices  of  her  pretty  face,  and  he 
pitied  Potowski. 

"  I  must  have  five  thousand  francs  before  to-morrow," 
said  his  aunt,  "  otherwise  these  dealers  will  make  me 
trouble." 

Fairfax  laughed  again.  With  a  touch  of  bitterness  he 
said  — 

"  And  I  must  have  an  income  of  five  times  as  much 
as  that  a  year  —  ten  times  as  much  as  that  a  year  —  unless 
I  wish  to  feel  degraded  because  I  am  a  poor  labourer." 


313 

The  comtesse  did  not  reply  to  this.  As  she  did  not, 
Fairfax  saw  the  humour  of  it. 

"  You  do  not  really  think  I  could  give  you  five  thousand 
francs,  auntie  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  haven't  a  great  deal  of  money,  dear 
boy * 

"  N"ot  a  great  deal,  auntie." 

"But  you  seem  to  have  such  a  lot  of  time  to  spend  to 
amuse  yourself." 

He  nodded.     "  So  I  seem  to  have." 

The  comtesse  looked  at  him  a  little  askance.  "You 
are  going  to  make  such  a  brilliant  marriage.  Mrs.  Faver- 
sham  is  so  fearfully  rich." 

Fairfax  exclaimed,  but  shut  down  on  the  words  that 
came  to  his  lips.  He  realized  that  his  aunt  was  a  toy 
woman,  utterly  irresponsible,  a  pretty  fool.  He  said 
simply  — 

"  You  had  better  frankly  tell  your  husband." 

She  swung  her  parasol  to  and  fro.  "  You  think  so, 
Tony?" 

"  Decidedly." 

"  And  you  couldn't  possibly  manage,  Tony  ?  " 

Tony  pointed  to  his  studies.  "  These  are  my  only 
assets;  these  are  my  finances,  auntie.  I  shall  have 
to  sell  something  to  live  on  —  if  I  am  so  lucky  as  to  be 
able  to  find  a  customer." 

"  If  I  could  give  the  dealer  a  thousand  francs  to- 
morrow I  think  he  would  wait,"  said  his  aunt. 

Tony  shook  his  head.  "  I  wish  I  were  a  millionaire 
for  five  minutes,  Aunt  Caroline." 

His  aunt  rose  and  smoothed  her  glove.  "  I  shall 
have  to  pawn  my  watch  and  necklace,"  she  said  tranquilly. 
"  Bella  is  fearfully  rich,"  she  drawled,  nodding  at  him, 
"and  she  is  of  age.  Her  father  will  settle  a  million  on 
her  when  she  marries." 

A  pang  went  through  Fairfax's  heart.  Another 
heiress ! 

"They  say  she  is  awfully  pretty  and  awfully  sought 
after." 

Antony  murmured,  "Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  and  took 
a  few  paces  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  his  aunt,  who  had  slowly  walked 


314  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

over  to  the  door  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knob, 
"  I  used  to  think  you  were  a  little  in  love  with  Bella. 
She  was  such  a  funny,  old-fashioned  child,  so  grown 
up." 

Fairfax  exclaimed  fiercely,  "  Aunt  Caroline,  I  don't 
like  to  re-live  the  past !  " 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  she  murmured  quietly ;  "  and  you 
are  going  to  make  such  a  brilliant  marriage." 

He  saw  her  go  with  relief.  She  was  terrible  to  him  — 
like  a  vampire  in  her  silks  and  jewels.  Would  she  ruin 
her  innocent,  kindly  husband?  What  would  she  do  if 
she  could  not  raise  the  money?  He  believed  her  capable 
of  anything. 

For  three  days  he  worked  feverishly,  and  then  he 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Faversham  that  he  was  a  little  seedy  and 
working,  and  that  as  Dearborn  was  away  he  would 
rather  she  would  not  come  to  the  studio.  Mrs.  Faversham 
accepted  his  decision  and  wrote  that  she  was  organizing 
a  charity  concert  for  some  fearfully  poor  people  whom 
the  Comtesse  Potowski  was  patronizing;  the  comte  and 
comtesse  would  both  sing  at  the  musicale,  and  he  must 
surely  come.  "We  must  raise  five  thousand  francs," 
she  wrote,  "  and  perhaps  you  may  have  some  little  figurine 
that  we  could  rafHe  off  in  chances." 

Tony  laughed  as  he  read  the  letter.  He  sent  her  a 
statuette  to  be  raffled  off  for  his  aunt's  Chinese  paintings. 
She  was  ignorant  of  any  sense  of  honour. 

When  Dearborn  came  back  from  London  he  found 
Antony  working  like  mad. 

Dearborn  threw  his  suit-case  down  in  the  corner,  his 
hat  on  top  of  it,  and  extended  his  hands. 

"  Empty-handed,  Tony !  " 

But  Fairfax,  as  he  scanned  his  friend's  face,  saw  no 
expression  of  defeat  there. 

"Which  means  you  left  your  play  in  London,  Bob." 

"Tony,"  said  Dearborn,  linking  his  arm  in  Fairfax's 
and  marching  him  up  and  down  the  studio,  "  we  are  going 
to  be  very  rich." 

"  Only  that,"  said  Tony  shortly. 

"This  is  the  beginning  of  fame  and  fortune,  old 
man!" 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  515 

Dearborn  sat  down  on  the  worn  sofa,  drew  his  wallet 
out  of  his  pocket,  took  from  it  a  sheaf  of  English  notes, 
which  he  held  up  to  Fairfax. 

"  Count  it,  old  chap." 

Fairfax  shook  his  head.  "  No ;  tell  me  how  much 
for  two  years'  flesh  and  blood  and  soul  —  how  you  worked 
here,  Bob,  starved  here,  how  you  felt  and  suffered ! " 

"  I  forget  it  all,"  said  the  playwright  quietly ;  "  but 
it  can  never  be  paid  for  with  such  chaff  as  this/' — he 
touched  the  notes.  "  But  the  applause,  the  people's  voices, 
the  tears  and  laughter,  that  will  pay." 

"  By  heaven !  "  exclaimed  Fairfax,  grasping  Dearborn's 
hand,  "_I  bless  you  for  saying  that! " 

Dearborn  regarded  him  quietly.  "Do  you  think  I 
care  for  money  ?  "  he  said  simply.  "  I  thought  you  knew 
me  better  than  that." 

Fairfax  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  know 
or  think ;  I  am  in  a  bad  dream." 

Dearborn  laid  the  notes  down  on  the  sofa.  "It  is 
for  you  and  me  and  Nora,  the  bunch,  just  as  long  as  it 
lasts." 

Between  Dearborn  and  himself,  since  Antony's  engage- 
ment, there  had  been  a  distinct  reserve. 

Antony  lit  a  cigarette  and  Dearborn  lighted  his  from 
Antony's.  The  two  friends  settled  themselves  com- 
fortably. It  was  the  close  of  the  day.  Without,  as  usual, 
rolled  the  sea  of  the  Paris  streets,  going  to,  going  with 
the  river's  tide,  and  going  away  from  it;  the  impersonal 
noise  always  made  for  them  an  accompaniment  not  dis- 
agreeable. The  last  light  of  the  spring  day  fell  on  Fair- 
fax's uncovered  work,  on  the  damp  clay  with  the  fresh 
marks  of  his  instruments.  He  sat  in  his  corduroys,  a 
red  scarf  at  his  throat,  a  beautiful  manly  figure  half 
curled  up  on  the  divan.  The  last  of  the  day's  light  fell 
too  on  Dearborn's  reddish  hair,  on  his  fine  intelligent 
face.  Fairfax  said  — 

"Now  tell  me  everything,  Bob,  from  the  begin- 
ning, from  the  window  as  you  looked  over  the  chimney- 
pots with  the  hyacinthine  smoke  curling  up  in  the 
air  —  tell  me  everything,  to  the  last  word  the  manager 
said." 

"Hark!"     exclaimed     Dearborn,     lifting     his     hand. 


316  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

"  Nora  is  coining.  I  want  to  tell  it  to  her  as  well.  No 
one  can  tell  twice  alike  the  story  of  his  first  success  —  the 
first  agony  of  first  success."  He  caught  his  breath  and 
struck  Fairfax  a  friendly  blow  on  his  chest.  "  It  will  be 
a  success,  thank  God!  There  is  Nora,"  and  he  crossed 
the  studio  to  let  Nora  Scarlet  in. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  third  day  he  went  up  to  see  her  and  found  her  in  the 
garden,  a  basket  on  her  arm,  cutting  flowers.  She  wore 
a  garcUn  hat  covered  with  roses  and  carried  a  pair  of 
gilded  shears  with  which  to  snip  her  flowers.  As  Antony 
came  down  the  steps  of  the  house  she  dropped  the  scissors 
into  the  basket  with  her  garden  gloves.  She  lifted  her 
cheek  to  him. 

"  You  may  kiss  me,  dear,"  she  said ;  "  no  one  will 
see  us  but  the  flowers  and  the  birds." 

Antony  bent  to  kiss  her.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though 
his  arms  were  full  of  flowers. 

"  If  you  had  not  come  to-day,  I  should  have  gone  to 
you.  You  look  well,  Tony,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  believe 
you  have  been  ill  at  all." 

"  My  work,  Mary." 

She  took  his  arm  and  started  towards  the  house. 
"You  must  let  me  come  and  see  what  wonderful  things 
you  are  doing." 

"  I  am  doing  nothing  wonderful,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  It  has  taken  me  all  this  time  to  realize  I  was  never  a 
sculptor;  I  have  been  so  atrociously  idle,  Mary." 

"  But  you  need  rest,  my  dear  Tony." 

"  I  shall  not  need  any  rest  until  I  am  an  old  man." 

He  caressed  the  hand  that  lay  on  his  arm.  They 
walked  past  the  flower-beds,  and  she  picked  the  dead 
roses,  cutting  the  withered  leaves,  and  talking  to  him 
gaily,  telling  him  all  she  had  done  during  the  days  of  their 
separation,  and  suddenly  he  said  — 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  have  missed  me." 

"  Everywhere,"  she  answered,  pressing  his  arm. 

They  walked  together  slowly  to  the  house,  where 
she  left  her  roses  in  the  hall  and  took  him  into  the 

317 


318  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

music-room,  where  they  had  been  last  when  he  left  her, 
the  afternoon  following  the  luncheon. 

"  I  must  impress  her  indelibly  on  my  mind/*  Antony 
thought.  "  I  may  never  see  her  again." 

When  she  had  seated  herself  by  the  window  through 
which  he  could  see  the  roses  on  the  high  rose  trees  and  the 
iron  balcony  on  whose  other  side  was  the  rumble  of  Paris, 
he  stood  before  her  gravely. 

"  Come  and  sit  beside  me/'  she  invited,  clowly. 
"  You  seem  suddenly  like  a  stranger." 

"  Mary/'  he  said  simply,  "  the  time  has  come  for  me 

to  ask  you "  The  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  What 

in  God's  name  was  he  going  to  ask  her?  What  a  fanatic 
he  was!  Utterly  unconscious  of  his  thoughts!  she  in- 
terrupted him. 

"  I  know  what  you  want  to  ask  me,  Tony,  and  I  hare 
been  waiting."  She  leaned  against  him.  "  You  see,  I 
have  had  the  foolish  feeling  that  perhaps  you  didn't  care 
as  you  thought  you  did.  It  is  that  dreadful  difference 
in  our  age." 

"  Do  you  care,  Mary  ?  " 

She  might  have  answered  him,  "Why  otherwise 
should  I  rnarry  a  penniless  man,  five  years  my  junior, 
when  the  world  is  before  me  ?  " 

She  said,  "  Yes,  I  care  deeply." 

"Ah,"  he  breathed,  "then  it  ia  all  right,  Mary;  that 
ia  all  we  need."  After  a  few  seconds  he  said  gently: 
"  Now  look  at  me."  Her  face  was  flushed  and  her  eyes 
humid.  She  raised  them  to  him.  He  was  holding  one 
of  her  hands  in  both  of  his  as  he  spoke,  and  from  time  to 
time  touched  it  with  his  lips.  "  Listen  to  me ;  try  to 
understand.  I  am  a  Bohemian,  an  artist;  say  that  over 
and  over.  Do  you  think  me  crazy?  I  have  not  been 
ill.  I  went  into  a  retreat.  I  shut  myself  up  with  my 
soul.  This  life  here," —  he  gestured  to  the  room  as  though 
it  held  a  host  of  enemies, — "  this  life  here  has  crushed  me. 
I  had  begun  to  think  myself  a  miserable  creature  just 
because  I  am  poor.  Now,  if  money  is  the  only  thing 
that  counts  in  the  world,  of  course  I  am  a  miserable 
creature,  and  then  let  us  drink  life  to  its  dregs;  and  if  it 
is  not  the  only  thing,  well  then,  let  us  drink  the  other 
things  to  their  dregs." 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  319 

She  said,  "  What  other  things  ?  " 

"Why,  the  beauty  of  struggling  together  with  every 
material  consideration  cast  out!  Think  how  beautiful 
it  is  to  work  for  one  you  love ;  think  of  the  beauty  of  being 
all  in  all  to  each  other,  Mary ! " 

"  But  we  are  that,  Tony." 

Now  that  Antony  had  embarked,  he  spoke  rapidly. 
"You  owe  your  luxury  to  your  husband  whom  you  never 
loved.  Now  I  cannot  let  you  owe  him  anything  more, 
Mary." 

She  began,  "But  I  don't  think  of  my  fortune  in 
connection  with  him/' 

Antony  did  not  hear  her.  "I  feel  lately  as  though  I 
had  been  selling  my  soul,"  he  said  passionately.  "And 
what  can  a  man  have  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ?  Of  course, 
it  was  presumptuous  folly  of  me  to  have  asked  you  to 
marry  me." 

She  put  both  her  hands  over  his  and  breathed  his 
name.  He  spoke  desperately,  and  the  picture  rose  up 
before  him  of  his  bare  studio  and  his  meagre  life. 

"  Will  you  marry  me  now  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  was  quite  ready." 

"  The  day  will  come  when  I  will  be  rich  and  great." 
He  paused.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  already  troubled, 
and  asked  eagerly,  "You  believe  that,  don't  you?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Great  enough,  rich  enough,  not  to  make  a  woman 
ashamed.  You  must  wait  for  that  time  with  me." 

Mary  Faversham  said  quietly,  "  You  have  been 
shutting  yourself  up  with  a  lot  of  fanatical  ideas." 

He  covered  her  lips  gently  with  his  hands.  His  face 
became  grave. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "don't  speak  — wait.  You  don't 
dream  what  every  word  you  say  is  going  to  mean  —  wait. 
You  don't  understand  what  I  mean !  " 

And  he  began  to  tell  her  the  gigantic  sacrifice  he  was 
about  to  impose  upon  her.  If  he  had  been  assured  of 
his  love  for  her,  assured  of  her  love  for  him,  he  might 
have  made  a  magnetic  appeal,  but  he  seemed  to  be  talking 
to  her  through  a  veil.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  I  cannot  ask  it,  Mary." 

Mary    Faversham's    face    had    undergone    a    change. 


320  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

It  was  never  lovelier  than  now,  as  with  gravity  and  sweet- 
ness she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  great  tenderness.  She  said  — 

"I  think  I  know  what  you  mean.  You  want  me  to 
give  up  my  fortune  and  go  to  you/' 

She  seemed  to  radiate  before  Fairfax's  eyes,  and  his 
worship  of  her  at  this  moment  increased  a  thousandfold. 
He  leaned  forward  and  laid  his  head  against  her  breast. 

In  the  love  of  all  women  there  is  a  strong  quality  of 
the  maternal.  Mary  bent  over  the  blond  head  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  his  hair.  When  Antony  lifted  his  face  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  cried  — 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  darling !  You  don't  know  how 
high  I  will  take  you,  how  far  I  will  carry  us  both.  The 
world  shall  talk  of  us !  Mary  —  Mary !  " 

She  smoothed  his  forehead.  She  knew  there  would 
never  be  another  moment  in  her  life  like  this  one. 

He  said,  "  I  will  take  you  to  the  studio,  of  course. 
I  haven't  told  you  that  in  June  I  shall  have  fifty  thousand 
francs,  and  from  then  on  I  will  be  succeeding  so  fast  that 
we  will  forget  we  were  ever  poor."  He  saw  her  faintly 
smile,  and  said  sharply,  "  I  suppose  you  spend  fifty 
thousand  francs  now  on  your  clothes !  " 

She  said  frankly,  "  And  more ;  but  that  makes  no 
difference,"  and  ventured,  "  You  don't  seem  to  think, 
Tony,  what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  me  to  do  for  you." 
She  paused  at  his  exclamation.  "  Oh,  of  course,  I  under- 
stand your  pride,"  and  asked,  "What  shall  I  do  with 
my  fortune,  Tony  ?  " 

"  This  money  on  which  you  are  living,"  he  said  gravely, 
"  that  you  have  accepted  from  a  man  you  never  loved, 
give  it  all  to  the  poor.  Keep  the  commandment  for  once, 
and  we  will  see  what  the  treasures  of  heaven  are  like." 

He  thought  she  clung  to  him  desperately,  and  there  was 
an  ardour  in  the  return  of  her  caress  that  made  him  say  — 

"  Mary,  don't  answer  me  to-day,  please ;  I  want  you 
to  think  it  calmly  over.  Just  now  you  have  shown  me 
what  I  wanted  to  see." 

She  asked,  "What?" 

"  That  you  love  me." 

She  said,  "Yes,  I  do  love  you.  Will  you  believe  it 
always  ?  " 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  321 

Bending  over  her  he  said  passionately,  "I  shall 
believe  it  when  I  have  your  answer,  and  you  are  going 
to  make  me  divinely  happy." 

She  echoed  the  word  softly,  "  Happy ! "  and  her 
lips  trembled.  Across  the  ante-chamber  came  the  sound 
of  voices.  Their  retreat  was  about  to  be  invaded  by  the 
people  of  the  world  who  never  very  long  left  Mary  Faver- 
sham  alone. 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried,  "  I  cannot  see  any  one.  Why  did 
they  let  any  one  in  ?  "  And,  lifting  her  face  to  him,  she 
said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Tony,  kiss  me  again." 

Antony,  indifferent  as  to  who  might  come  and  who 
might-net,  caught  her  to  him  and  held  her  for  a  second, 
then  crossed  the  room  to  the  curtained  door  and  went 
down  the  terrace  steps  and  across  the  garden. 

By  the  big  wall  he  turned  and  looked  back  to  where, 
through  the  long  French  windows,  he  could  see  the  music- 
room  with  the  palms  and  gilt  furniture.  Mary  Faversham 

was  already  surrounded  by  the  Comte  de  B and 

the  Baron  de  F .  He  knew  them  vaguely.  Before 

going  to  get  his  hat  and  stick  from  the  vestibule,  he 
watched  her  for  a  few  moments,  with  a  strange  adoration 
in  his  heart.  She  was  his,  she  was  ready  to  give  up  every- 
thing for  the  sake  of  his  ideals.  He  thought  he  could 
never  love  more  than  at  this  moment.  He  believed  that 
he  was  not  asking  her  to  make  a  ridiculous  sacrifice,  but 
on  the  contrary  to  accept  a  spiritual  gain  —  a  sacrifice  of 
all  for  love  and  art  and  honour,  too !  As  he  looked 
across  the  room  a  distinguished  figure  came  to  Mary 
Faversham.  He  was  welcomed  very  cordially.  It  was 
Cedersholm.  He  had  been  in  Russia  for  months.  Fair- 
fax's heart  grew  cold. 

As  though  Mary  fancied  that  her  mad  lover  might 
linger,  she  came  over  to  the  window  and  drew  down  the 
Venetian  shade.  It  fell,  rippling  softly,  and  blotted  out 
the  room  for  Fairfax.  A  wave  of  anger  swept  him,  a 
sudden  uncertainty  regarding  the  woman  herself  followed, 
and  immediately  he  saw  himself  ridiculous,  crude  and 
utterly  fantastical  in  his  ultimatum.  The  egoism  and 
childishness  of  what  he  had  done  stood  out  to  him,  and 
in  that  second  he  knew  that  he  had  lost  her  —  lost  her 
for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HE  did  not  go  home.  He  went  into  the  Bois  and  walked 
for  miles.  His  unequal,  limping  strides  tired  him  to  death 
and  he  was  finally  the  only  wanderer  there.  Over  the 
exquisite  forest  of  new-leaf  trees  the  stars  came  out  at 
length,  and  the  guardians  began  to  observe  him.  At 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  had  not  eaten.  He  went 
into  a  small  restaurant  and  made  a  light  meal.  For  the 
first  time  since  Albany,  when  he  had  drank  too  much  in 
despair  and  grief,  he  took  now  too  much  red  wine.  He 
walked  on  feathers  and  felt  his  blood  dance.  He  rang 
the  bell  at  Mary  Faversham's  at  nine-thirty  in  the 
morning,  and  the  butler,  intensely  surprised,  informed 
him  that  Mary  had  gone  out  riding  in  the  Bois  with 
Monsieur  Cedersholm.  Antony  had  given  this  servant 
more  fees  that  he  could  afford.  He  found  a  piece  of 
money  in  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  Ferdinand. 

"  But,  monsieur,"  said  the  man,  embarrassed,  and 
handled  the  piece.  It  was  a  louis.  Antony  waved 
magnificently  and  started  away.  He  took  a  cab  back  to 
the  studio,  but  could  not  pay  the  cabman,  for  the  louis 
was  his  last  piece  of  money.  He  waked  Dearborn  out  of 
a  profound  sleep,  in  which  the  playwright  was  dreaming 
of  two  hundred  night  performances. 

"  Bob,  can  you  let  me  have  a  few  francs  ?  " 

"  In  my  vest  pocket/'  said  Dearborn.  "  Take  what  you 
like." 

Tony  paid  his  cab  out  of  the  change  and  realized  that 
it  was  some  of  the  money  from  Dearborn's  advance 
royalties.  It  gave  him  pleasure  to  think  that  he  was 
spending  money  which  had  been  made  by  art.  It  was 
"  serious  money."  He  did  not  hesitate  to  use  it.  He 
sat  by  the  table  when  he  came  in  from  paying  his  cab 

322 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  323 

and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep,  his  head  upon  his  arm.  Thus 
the  two  friends  slumbered  until  noon,  Dearborn  dreaming 
of  fame  and  Antony  of  despair. 

At  two  o'clock  that  afternoon,  bathed  and  dressed, 
himself  again  save  for  a  certain  bewilderment  in  his 
head,  he  stood  in  his  window  looking  out  on  the  quays. 
Underneath,  Nora  Scarlet  and  Dearborn  passed  arm-in- 
arm. They  were  going  to  Versailles  to  talk  of  love,  of 
fame  and  artistic  struggle,  under  the  trees.  Antony 
heard  the  shuffling  of  his  old  concierge  on  the  stairs.  He 
knew  that  the  man  was  bringing  him  a  letter  and  that  it 
would  be  from  Mary. 

WiilT  the  letter  between  his  hands,  he  waited  some 
few  minutes  before  opening  it.  He  finally  read  it,  sitting 
forward  on  the  divan,  his  face  set. 

"  DEAREST/'  it  began,  and  then  there  was  a  long  space 
as  though  the  woman  could  not  bear  to  write  the  words, 
"You  will  never  be  able  to  judge  me  fairly.  I  cannot 
ask  it  of  you.  You  are  too  much  of  a  genius  to  under- 
stand a  mere  woman.  I  am  writing  you  in  my  boudoir, 
just  where  you  came  to  me  that  day  when  you  told  me  your 
love  and  when  I  wept  to  hear  it,  dearest.  I  shall  cry  again, 
thinking  of  it,  many  times.  I  have  done  you  a  great 
wrong  in  taking  ever  so  little  of  you,  and  taking  even 
those  few  months  from  the  work  which  shall  mean  so 
much  to  the  world.  Now  I  am  glad  I  have  found  it  out 
before  it  is  too  late.  I  have  no  right  to  you,  Tony.  In 
answer  to  what  you  asked  me  yesterday,  I  say  no.  You 
will  not  believe  it  is  for  your  sake,  dear,  but  it  is.  I  see 
you  could  not  share  my  life  in  any  way,  and  keep  your 
ideals.  How  could  I  ask  you  to  ?  I  see  I  could  not  share 
your  struggle  and  leave  you  free  enough  to  keep  your  ideals. 

"  I  can  never  quite  believe  that  love  is  a  mistake.  I 
shall  think  of  mine  for  you  the  rest  of  my  life.  When 
you  read  this  letter  I  shall  have  left  Paris.  Do  not  try 
to  find  me  or  follow  me.  I  know  your  pride,  dear,  the 
greatest  pride  I  ever  saw  or  dreamed  of.  I  wonder  if  it 
is  a  right  one.  At  any  rate,  it  will  not  let  you  follow 
me;  I  am  sure  of  that.  I  wish  to  put  between  us  an 
immeasurable  distance,  one  which  no  folly  on  your  part 
and  no  weakness  on  mine  could  bridge.  Cedersholm  has 


324  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

returned  from  Russia,  and  I  told  him  last  night  that  I 
would  marry  him. — MARY." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Tony  knew  how  he  loved  her. 
Crushing  the  letter  between  his  hands,  he  snatched  up 
his  hat  and  rushed  out,  took  a  cab,  and  drove  like  mad 
to  her  house. 

The  little  horse  galloped  with  him,  the  driver  cracked 
his  whip  with  utterances  like  the  sparks  flying,  and  they 
tore  up  the  Champs  Elysees,  part  of  the  great  multitude, 
yet  distinct,  as  is  every  individual  with  their  definite 
sufferings  and  their  definite  joys. 

Her  house  stood  white  and  distinct  at  the  back  of  the 
garden,  the  windows  were  flung  open.  On  the  steps  of 
the  terrace  a  man-servant,  to  whom  Antony  had  given 
fat  tips  which  he  could  not  afford,  stood  in  an  undress 
uniform,  blue  apron  and  duster  over  his  arm;  painters 
came  out  with  ladders  and  placed  them  against  the  wall. 
The  old  gardener,  Felicien,  who  had  given  him  countless 
boutonnieres,  mounted  the  steps  with  a  flower-pot  in  his 
hand  and  talked  with  the  man-servant;  he  was  joined 
by  two  maids.  The  place  was  left,  then,  to  servants. 
Everything  seemed  changed.  She  might  never  —  he  was 
sure  she  would  never  —  return  as  Mrs.  Faversham.  Im- 
measurably far  away  indeed,  as  she  said  —  immeasurably 
far  —  she  seemed  to  have  gone  into  another  sphere,  and 
yet  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms!  The  thought  of  his 
tenderness  was  too  real  to  permit  of  any  other  considera- 
tion holding  its  place.  He  sprang  out  of  his  cab,  rang  the 
door-bell,  and  when  the  door  was  opened  he  asked  the 
surprised  servant  for  Mrs.  Faversham's  address. 

"  But  I  have  no  idea  of  it,  monsieur,"  said  the  man 
with  a  comprehensive  gesture.  "  None." 

"  You  are  not  sending  any  letters  ?  " 

"  None,  monsieur." 

Fairfax's  blue  eyes,  his  pale,  handsome  face,  appealed 
very  much  to  Ferdinand.  He  liked  Monsieur  Rainsford. 
Although  the  chap  did  not  know  it  himself,  Tony  had 
been  far  more  generous  than  were  the  millionaires. 
Ferdinand  called  one  of  the  maids. 

"  Where's  madame's  maid  stopping  in  London  ? " 
asked  the  butler. 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  325 

"Why,  at  the  Ritz,"  said  Louise  promptly.  "She 
is  always  at  the  Ritz,  monsieur." 

Tony  had  no  more  gold  to  reward  this  treachery. 

When  Dearborn  came  home  that  night  from  Versailles 
he  found  a  note  on  the  table,  leaning  up  against  the  box 
in  which  the  two  comrades  kept  their  mutual  fund  of 
money.  Dearborn's  advance  royalty  was  all  gone  but  a 
hundred  francs. 

"  I  have  gone  to  London,"  Fairfax's  note  ran.  "  Sell 
anything  of  mine  you  like  before  I  get  back,  if  you  are 
hard  up. — TONY." 

He 'spent  two  pounds  on  a  pistol.  If  he  had  chanced  to 
meet  Cedersholm  with  her,  he  would  have  shot  him.  From 
the  hour  he  had  received  her  letter  and  learned  that  she 
was  going  to  marry  Cedersholm,  he  had  been  hardly  sane. 

At  five  o'clock  on  a  bland,  sweet  afternoon,  three  days 
after  he  had  left  Paris,  he  was  shown  up  to  her  sitting- 
room  at  the  Whiteheart  Hotel,  in  Windsor.  He  had 
traced  her  there  from  the  Ritz. 

Mary  Faversham,  who  was  alone,  rose  to  meet  him, 
white  as  death. 

"  Tony,"  she  said,  "  don't  come  nearer  —  stand  there, 
Tony.  Dear  Tony,  it  is  too  late,  too  late !  " 

He  limped  across  the  room  and  took  her  in  his  arms, 
looking  at  her  wildly.  Her  lips  trembled,  her  eyes  filled. 

"  I  married  him  by  special  license  yesterday,  Tony. 
Go,  go,  before  he  comes." 

He  saw  she  could  not  stand.  He  put  her  in  a  chair, 
fell  on  his  knees  and  buried  his  head  in  her  lap.  He 
clung  to  her,  to  the  Woman,  to  his  Vision  of  the  Woman, 
to  the  form,  the  substance,  the  reality  which  he  thought 
at  last  he  had  really  caught  for  ever.  She  bent  over 
him  and  kissed  his  hair,  weeping. 

"  Go,"  she  said.     "  Go,  my  darling." 

Fairfax  had  not  spoken  a  word.  Curses,  invectives, 
prayers  were  in  his  heart.  He  crushed  them  down. 

"  I  love  you  for  your  pride,"  she  said.  "  I  adore  you 
for  the  brave  demand  you  made  me.  I  could  not  fulfil 
it,  Tony,  for  your  sake." 

Then  he  spoke,  and  meant  what  he  said,  "You  have 
ruined  my  life." 


326  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

"  Oh  no !  "  she  cried.     "  Don't  say  such  a  thing ! " 

"  Some  day  I  shall  kill  him."  He  had  risen,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes.  "  You  loved  me/'  he  challenged,  "  you 
did  love  me !  " 

She  did  not  dare  to  say  "  I  love  you  still."  She  saw 
what  the  tragedy  would  be. 

"We  could  not  have  been  poor,"  she  said,  "could  we, 
dear?" 

He  exclaimed  bitterly,  "If  you  thought  of  that,  you 
could  not  have  cared."  And  she  was  strong  enough  to 
take  advantage  of  his  change. 

"I  suppose  I  could  not  have  cared  as  you  mean,  or 
I  should  never  have  done  this." 

Then  Fairfax  cursed  under  his  breath,  and  once  again, 
this  time  brutally,  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her, 
crying  to  her  as  he  had  cried  once  before  — 

"  Tell  him  how  I  kissed  you  —  tell  him  !  " 

White  as  death,  Mary  Faversham  pushed  him  from  her. 
"  For  the  love  of  God,  Tony,  go !  " 

And  he  went,  stumbling  down  the  stairs.  Out  in 
Windsor  the  bugles  for  some  solemn  festivity  were 
blowing. 

"  The  flowers  of  the  forest  are  all  wied  away." 


BOOK  IV 
BELLA 

CHAPTER  I 

FROM  the  Western  world  he  heard  nothing  for  four  years. 
Meanwhile  he  brought  his  new  skill,  his  maturer  knowledge, 
the  result  of  seven  years'  study  and  creation  in  the  work- 
shops of  masters  and  in  his  own  studio,  to  the  sculpturing 
of  the  second  tomb  —  the  Open  Door. 

There  were  crowds  around  his  marble  in  the  Salon, 
and  he  mingled  with  them,  watching  them  muse,  discuss, 
criticize,  grow  sad  and  thoughtful  before  his  conception  of 
Life  and  Death.  Some  of  them  looked  as  poor  Tom  Rains- 
ford  had  looked,  yearningly  toward  the  door  of  the  tomb. 
Others  hurried  past  the  inscrutable  beauty  of  the  Open 
Door.  Purely  white,  stainless,  slender,  luminous  and 
yet  cold,  Molly  stood  immortalized  by  Antony.  Hig 
conception  made  him  famous. 

He  had  exhibited  each  year  with  increasing  success 
at  private  exhibitions,  but  never  at  the  Salon,  and  had 
been  called  "  poseur "  because  of  his  reluctance  to 
expose  his  work  in  national  academies.  His  bas-reliefs 
had  made  him  favourably  known,  but  nothing  equalled 
the  solemn  marble  that  came  now  from  his  studio. 
Antony's  work  occupied  some  twenty  feet  in  the  Champ 
de  Mars. 

His  lame  foot  touched  a  pile  of  newspapers  on  the 
floor,  in  which  the  critics  spoke  of  him  in  terms  he  thought 
fulsome  and  ridiculous,  and  they  pained  him  while  they 
dazzled  him.  He  thought  of  Bella.  He  had  thought  of 

327 


328  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Bella  constantly  of  late,  and  there  were  no  answers  to 
his  questions.  She  would  be  twenty-three,  a  woman, 
married,  no  doubt,  always  enchanting.  How  she  had 
stood  before  his  bas-relief  in  Albany,  musing,  and  her 
eyes  had  been  wet  when  she  had  turned  to  him  and  asked, 
"Who  is  it,  Cousin  Antony?  It  is  perfectly  beautiful, 
beautiful !  "  He  would  have  liked  to  have  led  Bella  to 
his  work  in  the  Salon,  and,  hand-in-hand  with  her,  until 
the  crowd  around  them  should  have  melted  away,  have 
stood  there  with  her  alone.  From  the  night  her  in- 
spiring little  hand  had  stolen  into  his,  Bella's  hand  had 
seemed  a  mate  for  his. 

"  Who  is  it,  Cousin  Antony  ?  " 

Indeed,  who  was  the  woman  going  through  the  Open 
Door?  What  woman's  face  and  form  constantly  inspired 
him,  haunting  him,  promising  to  haunt  him  until  the  end  ? 
He  was  always  seeking  to  unveil  the  face  of  his  visions 
and  find  the  one  woman,  the  supplement,  the  mate,  the 
companion. 

Who  would  inspire  him  now?  His  memories,  his  dead, 
his  past,  had  done  their  work.  What  fresh  inspiration 
would  urge  him  now  to  create  ? 

The  public  had  no  fault  to  find  with  him.  The  tomb 
made  him  celebrated  in  twenty-four  hours.  At  a  time 
when  all  Paris  was  laughing  at  Eodin's  Balzac,  there  was 
a  place  for  a  sculptor  like  Antony,  for  the  idealist  and 
dreamer,  gifted  with  a  strong  and  faultless  technique. 

He  read  hastily  and  with  surprise  the  exaggerated  praise 
which  the  "  Open  Door  "  called  forth  from  the  reviews. 
"  It  is  not  as  good  as  all  that,"  he  thought,  "  and  it  is 
too  soon  to  hear  thunder  about  my  ears." 

He  seemed  to  see  the  door  of  his  future  open  and 
himself  standing  there,  the  burden  of  proof  upon  him. 
What  work  he  must  continue  to  produce  in  order  to  sustain 
such  sudden  fame !  The  Figaro  called  him  a  "  giant," 
and  several  critics  said  he  was  the  sculptor  of  the  time. 
His  mail  was  full  of  letters  from  friends  and  strangers. 
By  ten  o'clock  the  night  of  the  "  Vernissage "  all  his 
acquaintances  and  intimates  in  Paris  had  brought  him 
their  felicitations.  He  turned  back  to  his  table  where 
his  letters  lay.  He  had  just  read  an  affectionate,  en- 
thusiastic expression  of  praise  and  belief  from  Potowski. 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  329 

There  was  another  note  which  he  had  read  first  with  anger, 
then  with  keen  satisfaction,  and  then  with  as  much  malice 
as  his  heart  could  hold. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  represent  in  France  the 
committee  for  the  construction  in  Boston  of  a  triumphal 
arch  to  be  raised  in  commemoration  of  the  men  who  first 
fell  in  the  battle  of  the  Revolution.  The  idea  is  to  crown 
this  arch  with  a  group  of  figures,  either  realistic 
or  symbolical,  as  the  sculptor  shall  see  fit.  After  carefully 
considering  the  modern  work  of  men  in  France,  I  am 
inclined  to  offer  this  commission  to  you  if  you  can  accept 
it.  Your  l  Open  Door '  is  the  most  beautiful  piece  of 
sculpture,  according  to  my  opinion,  in  modern  times.  An 
appointment  would  gratify  me  very  much. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  sir,  etc., 

"  GUNNER  CEDERSHOLM." 

Antony  had  given  the  appointment  with  excitement, 
and  he  was  waiting  now  to  see  for  the  first  time  in  ten 
years  the  man  who  had  stolen  from  him  fame,  honour, 
and  love. 

He  had  heard  nothing  of  the  Cedersholms  for  six 
years.  As  far  as  he  knew,  during  this  time  they  had 
never  returned  to  France.  Once  he  vaguely  understood 
that  they  were  travelling  for  Mrs.  Cedersholm's  health. 

His  eyes  ached  to  look  upon  the  man  whom  he  regarded 
as  his  bitterest  enemy.  Of  Mrs.  Cedersholm  he  thought 
now  only  as  he  thought  of  woman,  of  vain  visions  which 
he  might  never,  never  grasp  or  hold.  He  had  bitterly 
torn  his  love  out  of  his  heart. 

After  leaving  her  at  Windsor  he  had  remained  for 
some  time  in  London  where  Dearborn  had  followed  him, 
and  where  Dearborn  and  Nora  Scarlet  were  married. 
Fairfax  had  sat  with  them  in  the  gallery  at  Regent's 
Theatre  when  the  curtain  rose  on  Dearborn's  successful 
play.  Fairfax  took  a  position  as  professor  of  drawing 
in  a  girls'  school  in  the  West  End  and  taught  a  group 
of  schoolgirls  for  several  months.  Between  times  he 
modelled  on  his  statues  for  his  new  conception  of  the 
"  Open  Door."  Then  in  the  following  spring,  with  a 


830  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

yearning  in  his  heart  and  homesickness  for  France,  he 
returned  into  the  city  with  the  May.  He  could  scarcely 
look  up  at  the  windows  of  the  old  studio  on  the  quays. 
He  rented  a  barren  place  in  the  Vaugirard  quarter  and 
began  his  work  in  terrible  earnestness. 

Now,  as  he  waited  for  his  visitor,  he  wondered  if 
Mary  Cedersholm  had  visited  the  Salon,  if  with  others  she 
had  stood  before  his  sculpture.  His  servant  announced 
"  Monsieur  Cedersholm,"  then  let  in  the  visitor  and  shut 
the  door  behind  him.  Cedersholm  entered  the  vast 
studio  in  the  soft  light  of  late  afternoon  with  which  the 
spring  twilight,  rapidly  withdrawing,  filled  the  room. 
Antony  did  not  stir  from  his  chair,  where  he  sat  enveloped 
in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke. 

The  small  man  —  Fairfax  had  forgotten  how  small  he 
was  —  entered  cautiously  as  though  he  were  entering  the 
room  of  a  foe,  which,  indeed,  he  was  doing,  without 
being  aware  of  it.  Fairfax  remembered  that  he  had  seen 
Cedersholm  wearing  a  single  eyeglass,  and  now  spectacles 
of  extraordinary  thickness  covered  his  eyes.  He  evidently 
saw  with  difficulty.  As  Fairfax  did  not  rise  to  greet  him, 
Cedersholm  approached,  saying  tentatively  — 

"  Mr.  Rainsf ord  ?  I  believe  I  have  an  appointment 
with  Mr.  Rainsford." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fairfax  curtly,  "  I  am  here.  Sit  down, 
will  you  ?  " 

His  lame  foot,  which  would  have  disclosed  his  identity, 
was  withdrawn  under  his  chair. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  Soudan,"  said  Cedersholm, 
"  where  I  had  a  sunstroke  of  the  eyes.  I  see  badly." 

"  Blindness,"  said  Fairfax  shortly,  "  is  a  common  fail- 
ing, but  many  of  us  don't  know  we  have  anything  the  mat- 
ter with  our  eyes." 

"  It  is,  however,  a  tragedy  for  a  sculptor,"  said 
Cedersholm,  taking  the  chair  to  which  Fairfax  had 
pointed. 

From  the  box  on  the  table  Fairfax  offered  his  guest  a 
cigar,  which  was  refused.  Antony  lit  a  fresh  one;  it 
was  evident  he  had  not  been  recognized. 

"  I  have  not  touched  a  tool  for  five  years,"  Cedersholm 
said.  "A  man  like  you  who  must  adore  his  work  can 
easily  imagine  what  this  means." 


331 

"For  two  or  three  years  I  did  not  touch  a  tool.  I 
know  what  it  means/' 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Cedersholm  with  interest.  "  What 
was  your  infirmity  ?  " 

"Poverty,"  returned  Fairfax.  Then  added,  "You 
have  not  come  to  talk  with  me  about  the  short  and  simple 
annals  of  the  poor/' 

"  All  that  which  goes  to  make  the  education  and 
career  of  a  great  man,"  said  Cedersholm,  "  is  deeply  in- 
teresting, especially  to  a  confrere.  You  have  executed  a 
very  great  piece  of  work,  Mr.  Eainsford." 

Fairfax  made  no  response. 

"  You  seem,"  said  Cedersholm,  "  to  doubt  my  sincerity. 
You  received  my  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Would  you  be  reluctant  to  undertake  such  a  work  ?  " 

The  man  who  stood  before  Fairfax  was  so  altered 
from  his  former  self  that  Tony  was  obliged  to  whip  up 
his  memories,  to  call  up  all  his  past  in  order  to  connect 
this  visitor  with  the  man  who  had  ruined  him.  Pale, 
meagre,  so  thin  that  his  clothes  hung  upon  him,  dis- 
figured by  his  thick  glasses,  he  seemed  to  have  shrunk  into 
a  little  insignificant  creature.  No  man  could  connect 
him  with  the  idea  of  greatness  or  success.  Fairfax 
answered  it  would  depend  upon  circumstances. 

"  I  expect  you  are  very  much  overrun  with  orders, 
Mr.  Rainsford.  I  can  understand  that.  I  do  not  take 
up  a  newspaper  without  reading  some  appreciative 
criticism  of  your  work."  The  Swedish  sculptor  removed 
his  glasses  and  wiped  his  eyes  with  a  fragrant  silk  hand- 
kerchief. Then  carefully  replacing  his  spectacles,  begged 
Fairfax's  pardon.  "  I  have  suffered  dreadfully  with  these 
infirm  eyes,"  he  said. 

Fairfax  leaned  forward  a  little,  continuing  to  whip 
up  his  memories,  and,  once  goaded,  like  all  revengeful 
and  evil  things,  they  came  now  quickly  to  bring  back 
to  him  his  anger  of  the  past.  Hatred  and  malice  had 
disappeared  —  his  nature  was  too  sweet,  too  generous  and 
forgiving  to  brood  upon  that  which  was  irrevocably  gone. 
He  had  been  living  fast;  he  had  been  working  intensely; 
he  had  been  loved,  and  he  had  shut  his  eyes  and  sighed 
and  tried  to  think  he  loved  in  return.  But  the  walls  of 


332  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

his  studio  in  the  Rue  Vaugirard  melted  away,  and, 
instead,  Cedersholm's  rich,  extravagant  New  York  work- 
shop rose  up  before  his  eyes.  He  saw  himself  again  the 
young,  ardent  student,  his  blood  beating  with  hope  and 
trust,  and  his  hands  busy  over  what  he  had  supposed  was 
to  be  immortal  labour;  it  had  been  given  for  this  man 
then,  the  greatest  living  sculptor,  to  adopt  it  for  his  own. 
Now  his  heart  began  to  beat  fast.  He  clasped  his  hands 
strongly  together,  his  voice  trembling  in  his  throat. 

"I  should  ask  a  tremendous  price,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  a  tremendous  price." 

"  Quite  right,"  returned  the  Swedish  sculptor.  "  Talent 
such  as  yours  should  be  paid  for  generously.  I  used  to 
think  so.  I  have  commanded  my  price,  Mr.  Rainsford." 

"  I  know  your  reputation  and  your  fame,"  said  Fairfax. 

The  other  accepted  what  his  host  said  as  a  compliment, 
and  continued  — 

"  The  committee  is  very  rich ;  there  are  men  of 
enormous  fortunes  interested  in  the  monument.  They 
can  pay  —  in  reason,"  he  added ;  "  of  course,  in  reason  — 
and  as  you  are  an  American  there  would  be  in  your  mind 
the  ideal  of  patriotism." 

"  My  demand  would  not  be  in  reason,"  said  Fairfax. 

Cedersholm,  struck  at  length  by  his  tone,  finding  him 
lacking  in  courtesy  and  manners,  began  to  peer  at  him 
keenly  in  the  rapidly  deepening  twilight. 

"  In  a  way,"  he  said  sententiously,  eager  to  be  under- 
stood and  approved  of  by  the  man  who,  in  his  judgment, 
was  important  in  the  sculpture  of  the  time,  he  continued 
courteously,  "  there  is  no  price  too  much  to  pay  for  art. 
I  have  followed  your  work  for  years." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Antony. 

"  Six  years  ago  I  bought  a  little  statue  in  an  exhibition 
of  the  works  of  the  pupils  of  Barye's  studio."  Cedersholm 
again  took  out  his  fine  silk  handkerchief  and  pressed  it 
to  his  eyes.  "  Since  then  I  have  looked  for  comment? 
on  your  work  everywhere,  and,  whenever  I  saw  you 
mentioned,  I  reminded  the  fact  to  my  wife,  who  was  an 
admirer  of  your  talent." 

Antony  grew  cold.  At  the  mention  of  her  name  his 
blood  chilled.  Mary !  Mary  Faversham-Cedersholm.  He 
drew  his  breath  hard,  clasped  one  hand  across  his  forehead, 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  333 

and  still  back  in  the  far  remote  past  he  did  not  bid  this 
vision  of  Mary  Cedersholm  to  linger. 

"  When  I  came  back  to  Paris,  I  found  you  had  justified 
my  faith  in  your  work.  The  question  of  payment  now, 
in  case  you  undertake  this  group,  for  instance,  I  dare 
say  the  matter  would  be  satisfactorily  adjusted." 

"  I  doubt  it,  Mr.  Cedersholm." 

Cedersholm,  already  interested  in  the  man  as  a  worker, 
became  now  interested  in  his  personality,  and  found  him 
curious,  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  chair  and  swung 
his  monocle,  which  he  still  wore,  by  its  string.  He  saw 
the  face  of  his  host  indistinctly,  and  his  eyes  wandered 
around  the  vast,  shadowy  studio  where  the  swathed 
casts  stood  in  the  corners.  The  place  gave  him  a  twinge 
of  jealousy  and  awakened  all  his  longings  as  an  artist. 

"  It  makes  me  acutely  suffer,"  he  said,  "  to  come  into 
the  workshop  of  the  sculptor.  Four  years  of  enforced 

idleness "  Then  he  broke  in  abruptly  and  said, 

"  You  have  apparently  settled  already  in  your  mind  — 
decided  not  to  accept  this  work  for  us.  I  think  you  are 
determined  not  to  meet  us,  Mr.  Eainsford." 

"  The  price,"  said  Antony,  leaning  fully  forward,  his 
blue  eyes,  whose  sight  was  unimpeded,  fixed  on  Ceders- 
holm, "  must  be  great  enough  to  buy  me  back  my  lost 
youth." 

His  companion  laughed  gently  and  said  indulgently, 
"  My  dear  Mr.  Rainsford." 

"  To  buy  me  back  my  loss  of  faith  in  men's  honour, 
in  human  kindness,  in  justice,  in  woman's  love." 

"  He  is  a  true  genius,"  Cedersholm  thought  to  himself, 
"  just  a  bit  over  the  line  of  mental  balance."  And  he 
almost  envied  Antony  this  frenzy,  for  he  had  always 
judged  himself  too  sane  to  be  a  great  artist. 

"  It  must  buy  me  back  three  years  of  bitter  struggle, 
of  degrading  manual  toil." 

"  My  dear  man,"  said  the  sculptor  indulgently.  "  I 
think  I  understand  you,  but  no  material  price  could  ever 
do  what  you  ask.  Money,  unfortunately,  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  past;  it  can  take  care  of  the  future 
more  or  less,  but  the  past  is  beyond  repurchase,  you 
know." 

It  was  growing  constantly  darker.     The  corners  of  the 


334  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

studio  were  deep  in  shadows,  and  the  forms  of  Antony's 
casts  shone  like  spectres  in  their  white  clothes;  the 
scaffoldings  looked  ghostly  and  spirit-like.  Cedersholm 
sighed. 

*  Why  have  you  come  to  me  ?  *'  he  heard  Fairfax 
ask  in  his  cutting  tone,  and  he  understood  that  for  some 
reason  or  other  this  stranger  was  purposely  impolite  and 
unfriendly  to  him.  He  had  not  even  found  Fairfax's  face 
familiar.  There  he  sat  before  Antony,  small,  insignificant. 
How  often  he  had  crossed  Tony's  mind  in  some  ugly 
dream  when  he  had  longed  to  crush  him  like  a  reptile. 
Now  that  he  stood  before  him  in  flesh  and  blood  it  was 
astonishing  to  Fairfax  to  see  how  little  real  he  was. 

"  I  have  been  absent  from  France  for  six  years,"  con- 
tinued the  Swede,  and  paused.  .  .  .  And  Antony  knew 
he  was  going  back  in  his  mind  over  the  past  six  years  of 
his  married  life  with  Mary.  "  I  returned  to  Paris  this 
week,  and  wandered  into  the  Salon  and  stood  with  a 
crowd  before  your  bas-relief.  I  stood  for  quite  half  an 
hour  there,  I  should  think,  and  at  least  one  hundred  men 
and  women  passed  and  paused  as  I  had  paused.  I 
listened  to  their  comments.  I  saw  your  popularity  and 
your  power,  and  saw  how  you  touched  the  mass  by  the 
real  beauty  of  real  emotion,  by  your  expression  of  feeling 
in  plastic  art.  This  is  not  often  achieved  nowadays, 
Mr.  Rainsford.  Sculpture  is  the  least  emotional  of  all 
the  arts;  literature,  painting,  and  music  stir  the  emotions 
and  bring  our  tears,  but  that  calm,  sublime  marble,  that 
cold  stone  awes  us  by  its  harmonious  perfection.  Before 
sculpture  we  are  content  to  marvel  and  worship,  and  in 
the  '  Open  Door '  you  have  made  us  do  all  this  and  made 
us  weep.  I  do  not  doubt  that  amongst  those  people  many 
had  lost  their  own  by  death."  He  paused.  It  was  go 
dark  now  that  the  two  men  saw  each  other's  face  indis- 
tinctly. In  the  shadows  Cedersholm's  form  had  softened; 
the  shadows  blurred  him  before  Fairfax's  eyes;  his  voice 
was  intensely  melancholy.  "  To  every  man  and  woman 
who  has  lost  your  bas-relief  is  profoundly  appealing. 
Every  one  of  us  must  go  through  that  door.  Your 
conception,  Mr.  Rainsford,  and  your  execution  are 
sublime." 

Fairfax  murmured   something  which   Cedersholm   did 


FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE  335 

not  make  out.  He  paused  a  moment,  apparently  groping 
in  thought  as  he  groped  with  his  weak  eyes,  and  as  Fairfax 
did  not  respond,  he  continued  — 

"  You  spoke  just  now  of  the  price  we  must  pay  you, 
the  price  which  you  say  must  buy  you  back  —  what  I 
judge  you  to  mean  by  your  progress,  by  these  years  of 
labour  and  education,  by  your  apprenticeship  to  art,  and, 
let  me  say,  to  life.  My  dear  man,  they  have  already 
purchased  for  you  your  present  achievement,  your  present 
power.  Everything  we  have,  you  know,  must  be  paid  for. 
Some  things  are  paid  for  in  coin,  and  others  in  flesh  and 
blood  -.-and  tears.  To  judge  by  what  we  know  of  the 
progress  of  the  world  in  spiritual  things  and  in  art,  it  is 
the  things  that  are  purchased  by  this  travail  of  the  spirit 
that  render  eternal  possessions,  the  eternal  impressions. 
No  man  who  has  not  suffered  as  you  have  apparently 
suffered,  no  man  who  has  not  walked  upon  thorns,  could 
have  produced  the  '  Open  Door.'  Do  not  degrade  the 
value  of  your  past  life  and  the  value  of  every  hour  of  your 
agony.  Why,  it  is  above  price."  He  paused  .  .  .  his 
voice  shook.  "  It  is  the  gift  of  God !  " 

Antony's  hands  were  clasped  lightly  together;  they 
had  been  holding  each  other  with  a  grip  of  steel;  now 
they  relaxed  a  bit.  He  bowed  his  head  a  little  from  its 
proud  hauteur,  and  said  — 

"  You  are  right ;  you  are  right." 

"  Four  years  ago,"  continued  the  voice  —  Cedersholm 
had  become  to  him  now  only  a  voice  to  which  he  listened 
in  the  darkness  — "  four  years  ago,  if  I  had  seen  the 
'  Open  Door,'  I  would  have  appreciated  its  art  as  I 
recognized  the  value  of  your  figure  which  I  bought  at 
the  Exposition,  but  I  could  not  have  understood  it;  its 
spiritual  lesson  would  have  been  lost  upon  me.  You  do 
not  know  me/'  he  continued,  "  and  I  can  in  no  way 
especially  interest  you.  But  these  six  years  of  my  life, 
especially  the  last  two,  have  been  my  Garden  of 
Gethsemane." 

He  stopped.  Antony  knew  that  he  had  taken  out  the 
silk  handkerchief  again  and  wiped  his  eyes.  After  a 
second,  Cedersholm  said  — 

"  You  must  have  lost  some  one  very  near  you." 

"  My  wife,"  said  Antony  Fairfax. 


336  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

The  other  man  put  out  his  hand,  and  he  touched 
Antony's  closed  hands. 

"  I  have  lost  my  wife  as  well ;  she  died  two  years  ago." 

Cedersholm  heard  Antony's  exclamation  and  felt  him 
start  violently. 

"Your  wife/'  he  cried,  "Mary  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  dead?" 

"  Yes.     Why  do  you  exclaim  like  that  ?  " 

"  Not  Mary  Faversham  ?  " 

"  Mary  Faversham-Cedersholm.     Did  you  know  her  ?  " 

With  a  supreme  effort  Antony  controlled  himself. 
His  voice  suffocated  him. 

Dead !  He  felt  again  the  touch  of  her  lips ;  he  heard 
again  her  voice;  he  felt  her  arms  around  him  as  she  held 
him  in  Windsor  — "  Tony,  darling,  go !  It  is  too  late." 

Oh !  the  Open  Door ! 

Cedersholm,  in  the  agitation  that  his  own  words  had 
produced  in  himself,  and  in  his  grief,  did  not  notice  that 
Fairfax  murmured  he  had  known  Mrs.  Cedersholm  in  Paris. 

"  My  wife  was  very  delicate,"  he  said.  "  We  travelled 
everywhere.  She  faded  and  my  life  stopped  when  she 
died.  To-day,  when  I  saw  the  '  Open  Door,'  it  had  a 
message  for  me  that  hrought  me  the  first  solace."  Again 
his  hands  sought  Fairfax's.  "  Thank  you,  brother  artist," 
he  murmured;  "you  have  suffered  as  I  have.  You 
understand." 

From  where  he  sat,  Fairfax  struck  a  match  and  lit 
the  candle.  Its  pale  light  flickered  up  in  the  big  dark 
room  like  a  lily  shining  in  a  tomb.  He  said,  with  a  great 
effort  — 

"  I  made  a  little  bas-relief  of  Mrs.  Cedersholm.  Did 
she  never  speak  of  me  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Cedersholm  thoughtfully.  "  She  met 
so  many  people  in  France;  she  was  so  surrounded.  She 
admired  greatly  the  little  figure  I  bought  at  the  Exposi- 
tion; it  was  always  in  our  salon.  We  spoke  of  you  as  a 
coming  power,  but  I  do  not  recall  that  she  ever  mentioned 
having  known  you." 

To'  Antony  this  was  the  greatest  proof  she  could 
have  given  him  of  her  love  for  him.  That  careful  silence, 
the  long  silence,  not  once  speaking  his  name.  He  had 
triumphed  over  Cedersholm.  She  had  loved  him. 
Cedersholm  murmured  — 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  337 

"  And  you  did  that  bas-relief  —  a  head  silhouetted 
against  a  lattice?  It  never  left  her  room,  but  she  never 
mentioned  it  to  me  although  I  greatly  admired  it.  It 
was  a  perfect  likeness."  Fairfax  saw  Cedersholm  peer 
at  him  through  the  candle  light.  "  Curious,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  curious." 

And  Antony  knew  that  Cedersholm  would  never 
forget  his  cry  of  "  Mary  —  Mary  dead !  "  And  her  silence 
regarding  his  existence  and  his  name,  and  that  silence 
and  that  cry  would  go  together  in  the  husband's  memory. 

The  door  of  the  studio  was  opened  by  Dearborn,  who 
came  in  calling  — 

"  Tony,  Tony,  old  man." 

Cedersholm  rose,  and  Antony  rose  as  well,  putting  out 
his  hand,  saying  — 

"  I  will  undertake  the  work  you  speak  of,  if  your 
committee  will  write  me  confirming  your  suggestion. 
And  I  leave  the  price  to  you,  you  know;  you  understand 
what  such  work  is  worth.  I  place  myself  in  your  hands." 

Dearborn  had  come  up  to  them.  "  Tony,"  said  Dear- 
born, "what  are  you  plotting  in  the  dark  with  a  single 
candle?" 

Fairfax  presented  him.  "Mr.  Cedersholm,  Robert 
Dearborn,  the  playwright,  the  author  of  '  All  Roads 
Meet/  '; 

Dearborn  shook  the  sculptor's  hand  lightly.  He 
wondered  how  this  must  have  been  for  his  friend.  He 
looked  curiously  from  one  to  the  other. 

"'All  Roads  Meet/"  he  quoted  keenly.  "  Good 
name,  don't  you  think?  They  all  do  meet  somewhere" 
-he  put  his  hand  affectionately  on  Tony's  shoulder - 
"even  if  it  is  only  at  the  Open  Door."  Then  he  asked, 
partly  smiling,  "And  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Cedersholm,  is 
she  in  Paris  too  ?  " 

"  My  wife,"  said  Cedersholm  shortly,  "  died  two  years 
ago." 

"  Dead ! "  exclaimed  Robert  Dearborn  in  a  low  tone 
of  regret,  the  tone  of  every  man  who  regrets  the  passing 
of  a  lovely  creature  that  they  have  admired.  "Dead! 
I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  know.  I  am  too  heartily 
sorry." 

He    put    out    his    kindly    hand.     Cedersholm    scarcely 


338  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

touched  it.     He  was  excited,  overwhelmed,  and  began  to 
take  his  leave,  to  walk  rapidly  across  the  big  room. 

As  the  three  men  went  together  toward  the  door  of 
the  studio,  Fairfax  turned  up  an  electric  light.  It  shone 
brightly  on  them  all,  on  Dearborn's  grave,  charming 
face,  touched  with  the  news  of  the  death  of  the  woman 
his  friend  had  loved,  on  Cedersholm's  almost  livid  face, 
on  his  thick  glasses,  and  on  Antony  limping  at  his  side. 
Cedersholm  saw  the  limp,  the  unmistakable  limp,  the 
heavy  boot,  his  stature,  his  beautiful  head,  and  in  spite  of 
his  infirmity  he  saw  enough  of  his  host  to  make  him  know 
him,  to  make  him  remember  him,  and  his  heart,  which 
had  begun  to  ache  at  Fairfax's  cry  of  Mary,  seemed  to 
die  within  him.  He  remembered  the  man  whom  he  had 
cheated  out  of  his  work  and  out  of  public  acknowledg- 
ment. He  knew  now  what  Fairfax  meant  by  the  re- 
purchase of  his  miserable  youth.  He  had  believed 
Antony  Fairfax  dead  years  ago.  He  had  been  told  that 
he  was  dead.  Now  he  limped  beside  him,  powerful, 
clever,  acknowledged,  and  moreover,  there  he  stood  beside 
him  with  memories  that  Cedersholm  would  never  know, 
with  memories  that  linked  him  with  Mary  Faversham- 
Cedersholm.  In  an  unguarded  moment  that  cry  had 
escaped  from  the  heart  of  a  man  who  must  have  loved 
her.  He  thought  of  the  bas-relief  that  hung  always 
above  her  bed,  and  he  thought  of  her  silence,  more  eloquent 
now  to  him  even  than  Antony's  cry,  and  that  silence  and 
that  cry  would  haunt  him  till  the  end,  and  the  silence 
could  never  be  broken  now  that  she  had  gone  through  the 
Open  Door. 

Dearborn  had  not  been  with  him  all  day  until  now. 
He  had  come  up  radiant  to  Tony,  and  putting  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  said  — 

"  My  dear  Tony,  I  had  to  come  in  to-day  just  to 
bring  you  a  piece  of  news  —  to  tell  you  a  rumour,  rather. 
The  '  Open  Door '  has  been  bought  by  the  Government. 
Your  fame  is  made.  I  wanted  to  be  the  first  to  tell  you. 
I  went  into  the  Embassy  for  a  little  while  to  hear  them 
talk  about  you,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  I  did  hear  them. 
The  ambassador  himself  told  me  this  news  is  official. 
Every  one  will  know  to-morrow." 


.FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  339 

They  talked  together  until  the  morning  light  came 
grey  across  the  panes  of  the  atelier,  and  the  light  was 
full  of  new  creations,  of  new  ideals  of  fame  and  life,  of 
new  ambitions  and  dreams  for  them  both.  Enthralled 
and  inspired  each  by  the  other,  the  two  artists  talked  and 
dreamed.  Dearborn's  new  play  was  running  into  its 
two-hundredth  performance.  He  was  a  rich  man.  Now 
Antony  paused  on  the  threshold  of  his  studio,  looking 
back  into  the  deserted  workroom  filling  with  the  April 
evening.  In  every  corner,  one  by  one,  the  visions  rose 
and  floated.  They  became  new  statues,  new  creations, 
indistinct  and  ethereal.  Only  the  space,  where  the  work 
that  had  been  carried  away  to  the  Salon  had  once  stood, 
was  bare.  As  he  shut  the  door  he  felt  that  he  shut  the 
door  for  ever  upon  his  past,  upon  his  young  manhood  and 
upon  his  youth. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  the  early  days  of  July  he  found  himself  once  more 
alone  in  the  empty  studio,  where  he  had  worked  for  twelve 
months  at  the  "  Open  Door." 

The  place  where  the  huge  marble  had  stood  was  empty ; 
in  its  stead  fame  remained. 

Looking  back,  it  seemed  now  that  his  hardships  had 
not  been  severe  enough.  Had  success  really  come? 
Would  it  stay?  Was  he  only  the  child  of  an  hour? 
Could  he  sustain?  He  recalled  the  little  statuettes 
which  he  had  made  out  of  the  clay  of  the  levee  when  he 
was  a  boy.  He  remembered  his  beautiful  mother's 
praise  — 

"  Why,  Tony,  they  are  extraordinary,  my  darling." 

And  the  constant  fever  had  run  through  his  veins  all 
his  life.  He  had  made  his  apprenticeship  over  theft  and 
death.  He  said  to  himself  — 

"  I  shall  sustain." 

As  he  mused  there,  the  praise  he  had  received  ringing 
in  his  ears,  he  entertained  fame  and  saw  the  shadow  of 
laurel  on  the  floor,  under  the  lamplight,  where  his  marble 
had  stood,  long  and  white. 

He  had  made  warm  friends  and  bound  them  to  him. 
He  loved  the  city  and  its  beauties.  His  refinement  and 
sense  of  taste  had  matured.  Antony  knew  that  in  his 
soul  he  was  unaltered,  that  he  was  marked  by  his  past, 
and  that  the  scars  upon  him  were  deep. 

He  was  very  much  alone;  there  was  no  one  with 
whom  he  could  share  his  glory.  Should  he  become  the 
greatest  living  sculptor,  to  whom  could  he  bring 
his  honours,  his  joys? 

For  a  long  time  Bella  went  with  him  in  everything 
he  did.  His  visions  were  banished  by  the  vivid  thought 

340 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  341 

of  her.  "When  he  came  into  his  studio  at  twilight  he  would 
fancy  he  saw  her  sitting  by  the  table. 

She  would  lean  there,  not  like  a  spirit-like  woman 
under  the  shaded  lamp,  sewing  at  little  children's  garments 
.  .  .  not  like  that!  Nevertheless,  Bella  sat  there  as  a 
woman  who  waits  for  a  return,  the  charming  figure,  the 
charming  head  with  its  crown  of  dark  hair,  and  the  lovely, 
brilliantly  coloured  face.  Now  there  was  nothing  spirit- 
like  in  Antony's  picture. 

Then  again  he  would  imagine  that  he  saw  her  in  the 
crowd  before  his  bas-relief  at  the  Salon;  he  would  select 
some  woman  dressed  in  an  unusually  smart  spring  gown 
and  call  her  Bella  to  himself,  until  he  saw  her  turn. 

Once  indeed,  there,  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  leaning 
with  her  hands  upon  the  handle  of  her  parasol,  he  was  sure 
he  saw  her.  The  pose  of  the  body  was  charming,  the 
turn  of  the  head  almost  as  haughty  as  his  own  mother's, 
but  the  slenderness  and  the  magnetism  were  Bella's  own. 

Antony  chose  this  woman  upon  whom  to  fix  his 
attention,  and  he  thought  that  when  she  would  move 
the  resemblance  would  be  gone. 

The  young  girl  suddenly  altered  her  pose,  and  Antony 
saw  her  fully;  he  saw  the  proud  beautiful  face,  piquant, 
alluring,  a  trifle  sad;  the  brilliant  lips,  the  colour  in  the 
cheeks,  like  a  snow-set  peach,  the  wonderful  eyes,  could 
belong  to  but  one  woman. 

Separated  from  her  by  a  little  concourse  of  people, 
Antony  could  only  cry,  "  Bella !  "  to  himself.  He  started 
eagerly  toward  the  place  where  he  had  seen  her,  but  she 
vanished  as  the  mirage  on  the  desert's  face. 

What  had  he  seen?  A  real  woman,  or  only  a  trick  of 
resemblance  ? 

It  was  real  enough  to  make  him  search  the  newspapers 
and  the  hotel  lists  and  the  bankers.  Now  he  could  not 
think  of  her  name  without  a  mighty  emotion.  If  that 
were  Bella,  she  was  too  lovely  to  be  true!  She  must  be 
his,  no  matter  at  what  price,  no  matter  what  her  life 
might  be. 

A  fortnight  after  he  received  in  his  mail  a  letter  from 
America.  The  address,  "Mr.  Thomas  Rainsford,"  was 
in  a  round  full  hand,  a  handsome  hand;  first  he  thought 
it  a  man's.  He  opened  it  with  slight  interest.  The 


342  FAIKFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

paper  exhaled  an  intangible  odour ;  it  was  not  perfume, 
but  a  delicate  scent  which  recalled  to  him,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  the  smell  of  the  vines  around  the  veranda-trellis 
in  New  Orleans.  He  read  — 

"Mr.  Thomas  Bainsford. 

"  DEAR  SIR,— 

"  This  will  seem  to  be  a  very  extraordinary 
letter,  I  know.  I  hardly  know  how  to  write  such  a  letter. 
When  I  was  in  Paris  a  few  weeks  ago,  I  stood  before  the 
most  beautiful  piece  of  sculpture  I  have  ever  seen.  I  do 
not  know  that  any  one  could  do  a  more  wonderful,  a  more 
deeply  spiritual  thing  in  clay  or  marble.  But  it  is  not 
what  I  think  about  it  in  that  way,  which  is  of  interest. 
It  cannot  be  of  any  interest  to  you,  as  you  do  not  know 
me,  nor  is  it  for  this  that  I  am  writing  to  you.  Again,  I 
do  not  know  how  to  tell  you. 

"Where  did  you  get  your  ideas  for  your  statue? 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  Years  ago,  a  bas-relief, 
very  much  like  yours  —  I  should  almost  say  identically 
yours  —  was  made  by  my  cousin,  Antony  Fairfax,  in  Al- 
bany. That  bas-relief  took  the  ten-thousand-dollar  prize  in 
Chicago.  It  was,  unfortunately,  destroyed  in  a  fire, 
and  no  record  of  it  was  kept.  My  cousin  is  dead.  For 
this  reason  I  write  to  ask  you  where  you  got  your  inspira- 
tion for  the  '  Open  Door.'  It  can  be  nothing  to  him  that 
his  beautiful  work  has  been  more  beautifully  done  by  a 
stranger,  can  do  him  no  harm,  but  I  want  to  know.  Will 
you  write  me  to  the  care  of  the  Women's  Art  League, 
5th  Avenue,  New  York?  Perhaps  you  will  not  deign 
to  answer  this  letter.  Do  not  think  that  I  am  making 
any  reproach  to  you.  It  can  be  nothing  to  my  cousin; 
he  is  dead  but  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  me.  Once  again, 
I  hope  you  will  let  me  hear  from  you. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  BELLA  CAREW." 

The  man  reading  in  his  studio  looked  at  the  signature, 
looked  at  the  handwriting,  held  it  before  his  eyes,  to 
which  the  tears  rushed.  He  pressed  the  faintly  scented 
pages  to  his  lips.  Gallant  little  Bella.  ...  He  stretched 


FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  343 

out  his  arms  in  the  darkness,  called  to  her  across  three 
thousand  miles  — 

"  Little  cousin,  please  Heaven  he  can  show  you  some 
day,  Bella  Carew." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  modelled  his  wonderful 
bust  of  Bella  Carew. 

When  he  finished  the  "Open  Door/'  he  said  that  he 
would  not  work  for  a  year,  that  he  was  exhausted  bodily 
and  mentally;  certainly  he  had  lacked  inspiration.  But 
the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  he  had  read  this  letter  — 
this  letter  that  opened  for  him  a  future  —  he  set  feverishly 
to  work  and  modelled.  He  made  a  head  of  Bella  which 
the  critics  have  likened  to  the  busts  of  Houdon,  Carpeaux, 
and  other  masters.  He  modelled  from  memory,  guided 
by  his  recollections  of  that  picturesque  face  he  had  seen 
under  the  big  hat  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  before 
his  bas-relief.  He  modelled  from  memory,  from  imagina- 
tion, with  hope  and  new  love,  from  old  love  too;  told 
himself  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Bella  the  first  night 
he  had  seen  her,  when  she  had  comforted  him  about  hia 
heavy  step. 

Into  the  beautiful  head  and  face  he  worked  upon  he 
put  all  his  ideal  of  what  a  woman's  face  should  be.  He 
fell  in  love  with  his  creation,  in  love  with  the  clay  that 
he  moulded.  Once  more  he  had  a  companion  in  the 
studio  from  which  had  been  removed  his  study  for  the 
tomb,  and  this  represented  a  living  woman.  It  seemed 
almost  to  become  flesh  and  blood  under  his  ardent  hand. 
"  Bella !  "  he  called  to  her  as  he  smoothed  the  lovely  cheek 
and  saw  the  peach  bloom  under  it. 

"  Little  cousin,"  he  breathed,  as  he  touched  the  hair 
along  her  neck,  and  remembered  the  wild,  tangled 
forest  that  had  fallen  across  his  face  when  he  carried 
her  in  his  arms  during  their  childish  romps.  "  Honey 
child,"  he  murmured  as  he  modelled  and  moulded  the 
youthful  lines  of  the  mouth  and  lips  and  stood  yearning 
before  them,  all  his  heart  and  soul  in  his  hands  that  made 
before  his  eyes  a  lovely  woman.  She  became  to  him  the 
very  conception  and  expression  of  what  he  wanted  his 
wife  to  be. 

They  say  that  men  have  fallen  in  love  with  that  beau- 
tiful face  of  Bella  Carew  as  modelled  by  Fairfax, 


344  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

Arch  and  subtle,  tender  and  provoking,  distinguished, 
youthful,  alluring,  it  is  the  most  charming  expression  of 
young  womanhood  that  an  artist's  hand  could  give  to  the 
world. 

"Beloved/'  he  murmured  like  a  man  half  in  sleep 
and  half  awakening,  and  he  folded  the  lines  of  her  bodice 
across  her  breast  and  fastened  them  there  by  a  single 
rose. 

With  a  sweep  of  her  lovely  hair,  with  an  uplift  of  the 
corners  of  her  beautiful  lips,  with  the  rose  at  her  breast, 
Bella  Carew  will  charm  the  artistic  world  so  long  as  the 
clay  endures. 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  the  promenade  deck  of  one  of  the  big  steamers,  as  it 
pushed,  around  into  its  pier,  a  man  stood  in  his  long 
overcoat,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  hoping  to  avoid  the 
reporters  whom  he  had  reason  to  suppose  were  ready  to 
make  him  their  prey. 

He  was  entering  New  York  Harbour  at  an  early 
hour  in  the  morning.  It  was  November,  and  over  the 
river  and  over  the  city  hung  the  golden  haze.  If  the 
lines  of  the  objects,  if  the  shore  and  buildings  were  crude, 
their  impression  was  not  so  to  him.  To  and  fro  the  ferries 
plied  from  shore  to  shore,  and  their  whistles  and  the 
whistles  of  the  tugs  spoke  shrilly  and  loudly  to  the  morning, 
but  there  was  nothing  nasal  or  blatant  to  him  in  the 
noises.  He  found  the  scene,  the  light  of  the  morning, 
the  greeting  of  the  city  as  it  stirred  to  life,  enchanting. 
He  had  gone  away  from  it  six  years  ago,  a  broken-hearted 
man,  and  it  seemed  now  as  though  he  had  made  his  history 
in  an  incredibly  short  time.  Down  in  the  hold  of  the 
boat,  in  their  cases,  reposed  his  sculptures,  some  thirty 
statues  and  models  that  he  had  brought  for  his  exposition 
in  New  York.  He  had  come  back  celebrated.  His  visions 
and  his  dreams  so  far  had  been  fulfilled. 

Once  again  all  his  past,  all  his  emotions,  his  tears  and 
aspirations,  culminated  in  this  hour.  This  was  his  return, 
but  not  as  Antony  Fairfax.  He  did  not  know  that  he 
should  ever  take  his  old  name  again.  He  had  made  the 
name  of  Thomas  Rainsford  famous,  and  the  fact  gave  him 
a  singular  tender  satisfaction,  linking  him  with  a  dear 
man  who  had  loved  him.  He  felt  almost  as  though  his 
friend  were  resurrected  or  given  a  new  draught  of  immortal 

life  every  time  the  name  was  said. 

345 


346  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

A  young  man  came  up  to  him,  pencil  in  hand,  his 
look  eager  and  appealing,  and  Fairfax  recognized  a  re- 
porter in  search  of  a  good  newspaper  story.  He  under- 
stood the  poor  clothes,  the  dogged  determination. 

"  You  want  a  story  ?  "  he  said.     "  Well,  sit  down." 

The  newspaper  man,  highly  delighted  with  the  sculptor's 
sympathy  and  understanding,  wrote  his  interview  with 
enthusiasm. 

Fairfax  talked  for  five  minutes,  and  said  at  the  close, 
"  I  had  not  intended  to  be  interviewed.  But  you  are  a 
rising  man ;  you  have  secured  me  against  my  will." 

The  reporter  put  up  his  pad.  "  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Rainsford;  but  this  is  so  impersonal.  I  would  like  some 
of  your  views  on  art.  They  tell  me  you  have  had  a  tough 
fight  for  success  and  existence." 

"  Many  of  us  have  that,"  said  Fairfax. 

"Your  ideals,  sir?" 

The  young  chap  was  only  twenty-one.  It  was  his  first 
interview.  Fairfax  smiled. 

"  Downstairs  in  the  hold  are  thirty  cases  of  my  work, 
the  labour  of  the  last  six  years.  Go  to  my  exposition,  and 
you  will  see  my  ideals." 

As  the  other  took  his  leave  Antony  saw  himself  again, 
poor,  unknown,  as  he  had  set  foot  in  New  York.  There 
was  a  deputation  on  the  wharf  to  meet  him  from  the 
Academy  of  Design,  and  he  walked  down  the  gang-plank 
alone,  leaving  no  one  behind  him  in  France  who  stood  to 
him  for  family,  and  he  would  find  no  one  in  America  who 
should  mean  to  him  hearth  and  home. 

They  had  taken  rooms  for  him  in  the  old  Hotel  Plaza 
overlooking  59th  Street;  there,  toward  the  afternoon  of 
the  first  day,  he  found  himself  at  three  o'clock,  alone  in 
his  parlour  overlooking  Central  Park. 

The  trees  were  still  in  leaf.  November  was  mild  and 
golden.  The  air  of  America,  of  the  city  which  had  once 
been  unfriendly  to  him,  and  which  now  opened  its  doors, 
blew  in  upon  him  through  the  open  window  like  a  caress. 
He  looked  musingly  at  the  little  park  where  he  had 
wandered  with  Gardiner  and  Bella,  on  the  Sunday  holiday, 
when  Bella  had  told  him  "  all  things  she  wanted  to  do  were 
wicked." 

Amongst   his    statues   he   had    brought   over   was    one 


FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE  347 

lately  bought  by  France  and  presented  to  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  It  was  the  marble  of  a  little  girl  mourning 
over  a  dead  blackbird.  Everything  in  the  city  was  con- 
nected now  with  Bella  Carew. 

There  was  a  sheaf  of  invitations  on  the  table  from 
well-known  New  Yorkers,  invitations  to  dinners,  invi- 
tations to  lecture,  and  he  knew  that  he  would  be  taken 
into  the  kindliest  heart  of  New  York.  Well,  if  work  can 
give  a  man  what  he  wants,  he  had  worked  enough  for  it; 
there  was  no  doubt  about  that.  It  had  been  nearly  a 
year  since  his  interview  with  Cedersholm.  He  brought 
with  him  casts  and  statues  for  the  triumphal  arch  in 
Boston,  and  he  intended  taking  a  studio  here  and  con- 
tinuing his  work  in  America,  but  he  had  no  plans.  In 
spite  of  his  success  and  the  prices  he  could  command,  his 
thoughts  and  his  mind  were  all  at  sea.  His  personality 
had  not  yet  developed  to  the  point  where  he  was  at  peace. 
He  knew  that  such  peace  could  only  come  to  him  through 
the  companionship  of  a  woman. 

No  commonplace  woman  would  satisfy  Fairfax 
now. 

Money  and  position  meant  absolutely  nothing  to  him. 
If  Bella  Carew  were  a  rich  and  brilliant  heiress  it  would 
probably  alienate  him  from  her.  His  need  called  for  a 
woman  who  could  work  at  his  side  with  a  kindred  interest, 
a  woman  who  knew  beauty,  who  loved  art,  whose  apprecia- 
tion and  criticism  could  not  leave  him  cold. 

What  would  Bella  Carew,  when  he  found  her  —  as  he 
should  —  prove  herself  to  be  ?  Spoiled  she  was,  no  doubt, 
mistress  for  several  years  of  a  large  fortune,  coquette, 
flirt;  of  these  things  he  was  partly  sure,  because  she  had 
not  married.  Children  with  her  great  promise  develop 
sometimes  into  nonentities,  but  Bella,  at  sixteen,  had 
surpassed  his  wildest  prophecies  for  her.  Bella,  as  he 
had  seen  her  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  had  driven  him 
mad.  He  knew  that  it  had  been  she;  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it  in  his  mind.  Now  to  find  her,  to  see  what  she 
had  become. 

He  knew  that  Bella,  when  she  opened  the  morning 
papers  the  next  day  —  if  she  were  in  New  York  —  would 
discover  who  he  was.  There  would  be  descriptions  of 
him  as  a  lame  sculptor;  there  would  be  reproductions 


348 

of  his  "  Open  Door  " ;  there  would  be  the  fact  that  he  was 
born  in  New  Orleans;  that  he  assumed  the  name  of 
Bainsford.  Now  that  he  had  no  longer  any  secret  to 
keep,  his  own  name,  Antony  Fairfax,  would  appear.  Bella 
would  not  fail  to  know  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  took  his  gloves  and  his  hat  and  started  out.  He 
drove  to  the  address  which  Bella  had  given  him,  where 
her  letters  were  to  be  sent.  It  was  a  studio  building, 
and  the  woman  stenographer  at  the  general  desk  knew 
that  Miss  Carew  was  absent  in  Europe  and  had  not 
returned. 

This  was  a  blow;  the  woman  saw  the  disappointment 
on  his  face. 

"  Miss  Carew's  letters  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  pointed  to  the  empty  box.  They  were  all  sent  to 
her  to  Europe. 

He  wandered  in  the  little  office  whilst  the  woman  did 
her  work.  He  glanced  around  him.  On  the  walls  there 
were  framed  sketches;  there  were  busts  in  plaster  on 
pedestals. 

It  struck  him  as  strange  that  Bella  should  have  her 
letters  sent  to  her  to  a  studio.  He  wanted  to  question 
the  secretary,  hesitated,  then  asked  — 

"  You  know  Miss  Carew  ?  " 

"  Very  well." 

"  I  reckon  she  patronizes  this  academy." 

It  would  not  have  been  surprising  if  she  had  given  it 
some  large  donation. 

The  stenographer  repeated  the  word,  "  Patronizes  ? 
Miss  Carew  works  here  when  she  is  in  America;  she  has 
a  small  studio  here." 

"  Works  here  ?     Do  you  mean  she  paints  ?  " 

The  woman  smiled.  "Yes;  she  has  been  studying  in 
Florence.  I  expect  her  home  every  day." 

Fairfax  still  lingered,  drawing  his  soft  gloves  through 
his  hands. 

"  There's  nothing  to  do,  then,  but  to  wait," —  he  smiled 

349 


350  FAIRFAX  AND  HIS  PRIDE 

on  her  his  light  smile.  He  turned  to  go,  hesitated.  The 
temptation  was  too  strong. 

"  Miss  Carew  paints  portraits  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  stenographer,  "beautiful  portraits." 

He  smiled,  biting  his  lips.  He  remembered  the  parallel 
lines,  the  reluctant  little  hand  drawing  them  across  the 
board. 

"  No  more  parallel  lines,  Cousin  Antony." 

He  did  not  believe  that  she  painted  beautiful  portraits. 
He  would  have  loved  to  see  her  work,  oh,  how  much! 
There  must  be  some  of  it  here. 

"  There  is  nothing  of  hers  here,  I  suppose  ?  " 

He  went  across  the  little  room  to  the  door.  He  could 
hardly  bear  to  go  from  here,  from  the  only  place  that  had 
any  knowledge  of  Bella  as  far  as  he  knew. 

He  took  out  his  card,  scribbled  his  address  upon  it, 
handed  it  to  the  stenographer,  without  asking  anything 
of  her  but  to  let  him  know  when  she  would  come  back. 

The  woman  nodded  sympathetically. 

"  It  is  unusual  for  a  great  heiress,  like  Miss  Carew,  to 
paint  portraits." 

"  She  is  not  a  great  heiress ;  Mr.  Carew  lost  all  his 
money  two  years  ago.  I  think  Miss  Carew  is  almost  quite 
poor." 

A  radiant  look  came  over  Antony's  face.  "  Thank 
you  very  much  indeed,"  he  said.  "  I  count  on  you  to 
take  care  of  this  little  commission  for  me,"  and  he  went 
out  of  the  room  in  ecstasy,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

HE  left  his  hansom  at  the  entrance  of  the  park,  at  72nd 
Street. 

Tfiiere,  on  the  corner,  stood  his  uncle's  house,  a  monu- 
ment, to  him,  of  the  past.  His  heart  beat  hard  as  he 
looked  at  the  unfriendly  dwelling  from  whose  doors  he 
had  rushed  on  the  night  of  the  winter  blizzard,  when, 
as  it  had  seemed  to  him  then,  little  Gardiner's  spirit 
rushed  with  him  out  into  the  storm.  From  those  windows 
Bella  had  waved  her  hand. 

How  his  spirits  had  risen  high  with  hope,  the  night 
on  which  he  had  first  gone  up  those  steps.  It  was  on 
that  night  Bella  had  said  to  him,  "Why,  you  have  got 
a  light  step  and  a  heavy  step,  Cousin  Antony.  I  never 
heard  any  one  walk  like  that  before." 

He  tramped  into  Central  Park,  taking  his  way  to 
the  Metropolitan  Museum.  At  the  door  he  was  informed 
that  the  museum  was  closed.  He  gave  his  card,  and, 
after  a  few  words  with  the  man  in  charge,  Thomas 
Rainsford  the  sculptor  was  let  in  and  found  himself,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  alone.  He  wandered  about  the 
sculptures,  wondering  where  the  statue  of  little  "  Bella  " 
would  be  placed. 

The  rooms  were  delightfully  restful.  He  chose  a  bench 
and  sat  down,  resting  and  musing. 

In  front  of  one  of  the  early  Italian  pictures  stood  an 
easel  with  a  copy  exposed  upon  it  to  his  view.  A  re- 
production of  a  sixteenth-century  Madonna  with  a  child 
upon  her  breast.  The  copy  showed  the  hand  of  an  adept 
in  colour  and  drawing.  Antony  looked  at  it  with  keen 
pleasure,  musing  upon  the  beauty  of  the  child. 

Afterwards  he  rose  and  went  into  the  Egyptian  room, 
lingering  there.  But  when  he  came  back  the  painter  was 
there  before  her  easel,  and  Antony  stood  in  the  doorway 
to  watch  her  at  work. 

351 


352  FAIEFAX  AND  HIS  PEIDE 

She  wore  a  long  brown  linen  painting  apron  that 
covered  her  form,  evidently  a  slender  form,  evidently  a 
young  form.  She  painted  ardently,  with  confidence  and 
absorption.  As  Antony  watched  her,  her  pose,  her 
ardour,  the  poise  of  her  body,  the  lovely  dark  head,  the 
gestures,  the  fire  of  her,  brought  all  of  a  sudden  his  past 
rushing  back  to  him.  The  sight  of  her  came  to  him  with  a 
thrilling,  wonderful  remembrance.  He  came  forward,  his 
light  step  and  his  heavy  step  falling  on  the  hard  wood 
floors  of  the  museum. 

She  turned  before  he  was  close  to  her,  her  palette  and 
her  brushes  in  her  hand.  She  stood  for  a  moment  im- 
movable, then  gave  a  little  cry,  dropped  her  palette  and 
brushes  on  the  floor,  grew  white,  then  blushed  deeply 
and  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him. 

"Cousin  Antony!" 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  could  not  find  his  voice  even 
to  say  her  name.  He  heard  her  say  — 

"They  told  me  you  were  dead!  I  thought  you  had 
died  long  ago  —  I  thought  another  man  had  taken  your 
genius  and  your  fame." 

She  spoke  fast,  with  catching  breath,  in  a  low  vibrant 
tone  that  he  remembered  —  how  he  did  remember  it ! 
His  very  life  seemed  to  breathe  on  her  lips  in  the  sound 
of  her  voice.  "  Flow  gently,  sweet  Af  ton  " —  the  music 
was  here  —  here  —  all  the  music  in  the  world ! 

"  I  know  who  you  are  now ;  I  saw  it  in  the  paper. 
I  read  it  this  morning.  I  saw  your  picture,  and  I  knew." 
She  stopped  to  catch  her  breath  deeply.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad !  " 

She  was  more  beautiful  than  he  had  dreamed  she 
would  be;  brilliant,  bewitching,  and  the  flowers  of  his 
past  clustered  round  her. 

"I  heard  them  falling  through  the  rooms,  the  light 
step  and  the  heavy  step." 

Slowly  by  both  her  hands  which  he  held  he  drew  her 
toward  him,  and  as  he  held  her  cheek  against  his  lips  he 
heard  her  murmur  — 

"Back  from  the  dead!  Cousin  Antony.  .  .  .  No, 
just  Anton v !  " 

"  Little  cousin !  "  he  said.     "  Bella ! " 

THE   END 


UONAL  LJBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  036  243     4 


